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HUME 



BY 



PROFESSOR HUXLEY 



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NEW YORK 

HAKPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN SQUARE 



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CONTENTS. 

PART I.— HUME' S LIFE. 
CHAPTER I. 

PAGJB 

EARLY LIFE : LITERARY AISTD POLITICAL WRITINGS ... 1 

CHAPTER II. 

LATER YEARS : THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 25 

PART IL— HUME'S PHILOSOPHY. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY 46 

CHAPTER II. 

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND 59 

CHAPTER III. 

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS 72 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE CLASSIFICATION AND THE NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL 

OPERATIONS 87 

CHAPTER y. 

MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS 101 



vi CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VI. 

PAGE 

LANGUAGE : PKOPOSITIONS CONCERNING NECESSARY TRUTHS 112 

CHAPTER VII. 

ORDER OF nature: MIRACLES 127 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THEISM : EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY 138 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE SOUL : THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY 163 

CHAPTER X. 

volition: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 181 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS 195 



H UME^ 

PART I. 

nUME'S LIFE. 
CHAPTER I. 

EARLY LIFE ! LITERARY AND POLITICAL WRITINGS. 

David Hume was born in Edinburgh on the 26th of April 
(O.S.), 1711. His parents were then residing in the parish 
of the Tron Church, apparently on a visit to the Scottish 
capital, as the small estate which his father, Joseph Hume, 
or Home, inherited, lay in Berwickshire, on the banks of 
the "Whitadder, or Whitewater, a few miles from the bor- 
der, and within sight of English ground. The paternal 
mansion was little more than a very modest farmhouse,^ 
and the property derived its name of Ninewells from a 

^ A picture of the house, taken from Drummond's History of No- 
ble British Families, is to be seen in Chambers's Book of Days (April 
26th); and if, as Drummond says, "It is a favourable specimen of 
the best Scotch lairds' houses," all that can be said is that the worst 
Scotch lairds must have been poorly lodged indeed. 



2 HUME. [chap. 

considerable spring, wliieli breaks out on tbe slope in 
front of tlie house, and falls into tlie Whitadder. 

Both mother and father came of good Scottish families 
— the paternal line running back to Lord Home of Doug- 
las, who went over to France with the Douglas during the 
French wars of Henry V. and VL, and was killed at the 
battle of Yerneuil. Joseph Hume died when David was 
an infant, leaving himself and two elder children, a broth- 
er and a sister, to the care of their mother, who is de- 
scribed by David Hume in My Own Life as " a woman 
of singular merit, who, though young and handsome, de- 
voted herself entirely to the rearino; and education of her 
children." Mr. Burton says : " Her portrait, which I have 
seen, represents a thin but pleasing countenance, expres- 
sive of great intellectual acuteness;" and as Hume told 
Dr. Black that she had " precisely the same constitution 
with himself" and died of the disorder which proved 
fatal to him, it is probable that the qualities inherited 
from his mother had much to do with the future philos- 
opher's eminence. It is curious, however, that her esti- 
mate of her son in her only recorded, and perhaps slightly 
apocryphal utterance, is of a somewhat unexpected char- 
acter. " Our Davie's a fine, good-natured crater, but un- 
common wake-minded." The first part of the judgment 
was indeed verified by "Davie's" Avhole life; but one 
might seek in vain for signs of what is commonly un- 
derstood as "weakness of mind" in a man who not only 
showed himself to be an intellectual athlete, but who had 
an eminent share of practical wisdom and tenacity of 
purpose. One would like to know, however, when it was 
that Mrs. Hume committed herself to this not too flatter- 
ing judgment of her younger son. For as Hume reached 
the mature age of four-and-thirty before he obtained any 



I.] CHILDHOOD AND EDUCATION. S 

employment of sufficient importance to convert the mea- 
gre pittance of a middling laird's younger brother into a 
decent maintenance, it is not improbable that a shrewd 
Scot's wife may have thought his devotion to philosophy 
and poverty to be due to mere infirmity of purpose. But 
she lived till 1749, long enough to see more than the 
dawn of her son's literary fame and official importance, 
and probably changed her mind about ^'Davie's" force of 
character. 

.David Hume appears to have ''owed little to schools 
or universities. There is some evidence that he entered 
the Greek class in the University of Edinburgh in 1723 
— when he was a boy of twelve years of age — but it is 
not known how long his studies were continued, and he 
did not graduate. In 1727, at any rate, he was living at 
Ninewells, and already possessed by that love of learning 
and thirst for literary fame, which, as My Own Life tells 
us, was the ruling passion of his life and the chief source 
of his enjoyments. A letter of this date, addressed to 
his friend Michael Ramsay, is certainly a most singular 
production for a boy of sixteen. After sundry quotations 
from Virgil, the letter proceeds : — 

" The perfectly wise man that outbraves fortune, is much 
greater than the husbandman who slips by her j and, indeed, 
this pastoral and saturnian happiness I have in a great meas- 
ure come at just now. I live like a king, pretty much by 
myself, neither full of action nor perturbation — molles somnos. 
This state, however, I can foresee, is not to be relied on. My 
peace of mind is not sufficiently confirmed by philosophy to 
withstand the blows of fortune. This greatness and eleva- 
tion of soul is to be found only in study and contempla- 
tion. This alone can teach us to look down on human ac- 
cidents. You must allow [me] to talk thus like a philoso- 
1^- 



4 HUME. [chap. 

pher : 'tis a subject I think mucli on, and could talk all day 
long of." 

If David talked in this strain to his mother, her tongue 
probably gave utterance to " Bless the bairn !" and, in 
her private soul, the epithet " v^ake-minded" may then 
have recorded itself. But, though few lonely, thought- 
ful, studious boys of sixteen give vent to their thoughts 
in such stately periods, it is probable that the brooding 
over an ideal is commoner at this ao^e than fathers and 
mothers, busy with the cares of practical life, are apt to 
imagine. 

About a year later, Hume's family tried to launch him 
into the profession of the law ; but, as he tells us, " while 
they fancied I was poring upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero 
and Virgil were the authors which I was secretly devour- 
ing," and the attempt seems to have come to an abrupt 
termination. Nevertheless, as a very competent author- 
ity^ wisely remarks:- — 

" There appear to have been in Hume all the elements of 
which a good lawyer is made : clearness of judgment, power 
of rapidly acquiring knowledge, untiring industry, and dia- 
lectic skill : and if his mind had not been preoccupied, he 
might have fallen into the gulf in which many of the world's 
greatest geniuses lie buried — professional eminence; and 
might have left behind him a reputation limited to the tra- 
ditional recollections of the Parliament-house, or associated 
with important decisions. He was through life an able, 
clear-headed man of business, and I have seen several legal 

1 Mr. John Hill Burton, in his valuable lAfe of Hume^ on which, I 
need hardly say, I have drawn freely for the materials of the present 
biographical sketch. 



l] false starts. 5 

documents, written in liis own hand and evidently drawn by 
himself. They stand the test of general professional obser- 
vation ; and their writer, by preparing documents of facts 
of such a character on his own responsibility, showed that 
he had considerable confidence in his ability to adhere to 
the forms adequate for the occasion. He talked of it as ' an 
ancient prejudice industriously propagated by the dunces 
in all countries, that a man of genius is unfit for husiness^'^ 
and he showed, in his general conduct through life, that he 
did not choose to come voluntarily under this proscription." 

Six years longer Hume remained at Ninewells before he 
made another attempt to embark in a practical career — 
this time commerce — and with a like result. For a few 
months' trial proved that kind of life, also, to be hopeless- 
ly against the grain. 

It was while in London, on his way to Bristol, where 
he proposed to commence his mercantile life, that Hume 
addressed to some eminent London physician (probably, 
as Mr. Burton suggests. Dr. George Cheyne) a remarkable 
letter. Whether it was ever sent seems doubtful ; but it 
shows that philosophers as well as poets have their Wer- 
terian crises, and it presents an interesting parallel to John 
Stuart Mill's record of the corresponding period of his 
youth. The letter is too long to be given in full, but a 
few quotations may suffice to indicate its importance to 
those who desire to comprehend the man. 

"You must know then that from my earliest infancy I 
found always a strong inclination to books and letters. As 
our college echication in Scotland, extending little further 
than the languages, ends commonly when we are about four- 
teen or fifteen years of age, I was after that left to my own 
X^hoice in my reading, and found it incline me almost equal- 
ly to books of reasoning and philosophy, and to poetry and 



6 HUME. [chap. 

the polite authors. Every one who is acquainted either with 
the philosophers or critics, knows that there is nothing yet 
established in either of these two sciences, and that they 
contain little more than endless disputes, even in the most 
fundamental articles. Upon examination of these, I found a 
certain boldness of temper growing on me, which was not 
inclined to submit to any authority in these subjects, but led 
me to seek out some new medium, by which truth might be 
established. After much study and reflection on this, at last, 
when I was about eighteen years of age, there seemed to be 
opened up to me a new scene of thought, which transport- 
ed me beyond measure, and made me, with an ardour natu- 
ral to young men, throw up every other pleasure or business 
to apply entirely to it. The law, which was the business I 
designed to follow, appeared nauseous to me, and I could 
think of no other way of pushing my fortune in the world 
but that of a scholar and philosopher. I was infinitely happy 
in this course of life for some months ; till at last, about the 
beginning of September, 1729, all my ardour seemed in a 
moment to be extinguished, and I could no longer raise my 
mind to that pitch which formerly gave me such excessive 
pleasure." 

This " decline of soul " Hume attributes, in part, to his 
being smitten with the beautiful representations of virtue 
in the works of Cicero, Seneca, and Plutarch, and being 
thereby led to discipline his temper and his will along 
with his reason and understanding. 

"I was continually fortifying myself with reflections 
against death, and poverty, and shame, and pain, and all the 
other calamities of life." 

And he adds, very characteristically :— 

" These, no doubt, are exceeding useful when joined with 
an active life, because the occasion being presented along 
with the reflection, works it into the soul, and makes it take 



I.] TRIES MERCANTILE LIFE. 1 

a deep impression ; but, in solitude, tliey serve to little other 
purpose than to waste the spirits, the force of the mind meet- 
ing no resistance, but wasting itself in the air, like our arm 
when it misses its aim." 

Along with all this mental perturbation, symptoms of 
scurvy, a disease now almost unknown among landsmen, 
but which, in the days of winter, salt meat, before root 
crops flourished in the Lothians, greatly plagued our fore- 
fathers, made their appearance. And, indeed, it may be 
suspected that physical conditions were, at first, at the bot- 
tom of the whole business; for, in 1731, a ravenous appe- 
tite set in, and in six weeks, from being tall, lean, and raw- 
boned, Hume says he became sturdy and robust, with a 
ruddy complexion and a cheerful countenance — eating, 
sleeping, and feeling well, except that the capacity for in- 
tense mental application seemed to be gone. He, there- 
fore, determined to seek out a more active life ; and, 
though he could not and would not ^^ quit his pretensions 
to learning but with his last breath," he resolved "to lay 
them aside for some time, in order the more effectually to 
resume them.'* 

The careers open to a poor Scottish gentleman in those 
days were very few ; and, as Hume's option lay between a 
travelling tutorship and a stool in a merchant's office, he 
chose the latter. 

"And having got recommendation to a considerable trad- 
er in Bristol, I am just no^ hastening thither, with a resolu- 
tion to forget myself, and everything that is past, to engage 
mysejf, as far as is possible, in that course of life, and to toss 
about the world from one pole to the other, till I leave this 
distemper behind me."^ 

^ One cannot but be reminded of young Descartes' renunciation of 
study for soldiering. 



8 HUME. [chap. 

But it was all of no use — Nature would have her way 
— and in the middle of 1736, David Hume, aged twenty- 
three, without a profession or any assured means of earn- 
ing a guinea ; and having doubtless, by his apparent vac- 
illation, but real tenacity of purpose, once more earned the 
title of ^' wake-minded " at home ; betook himself to a for- 
eign country. 

" I went over to France, with a view of prosecuting my 
studies in a country retreat : and there I laid that plan of 
life which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I re- 
solved to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency 
of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my independency, and to 
regard every object as contemptible except the improvement 
of my talents in literature."^ 

Hume passed through Paris on his way to Rheims, 
where he resided for some time ; though the greater part 
of his three years' stay was spent at La Fleche, in fre- 
quent intercourse with the Jesuits of the famous college 
in which Descartes was educated. Here he composed 
his first work, the Treatise of Human Nature ; though it 
would appear, from the following passage in the letter to 
Cheyne, that he had been accumulating materials to that 
end for some years before he left Scotland. 

" I found that the moral philosophy transmitted to us by 
antiquity laboured under the same inconvenience that has 
been found in their natural philosophy, of being entirely hy- 
pothetical, and depending more upon invention than experi- 
ence : every one consulted his fancy in erecting schemes of 
virtue and happiness, without regarding human nature, upon 
which every moral conclusion must dej)end." 

^ My Own Life. 



l] residence in FKANCE. 9 

This is the key-note of the Treatise ; of which Hume 
himself says apologetically, in one of his letters, that it 
was planned before he was twenty-one and composed be- 
fore he had reached the age of twenty-five/ 

Under these circumstances, it is probably the most re- 
markable philosophical work, both intrinsically and in its 
effects upon the course of thought, that has ever been 
written. Berkeley, indeed, published the Essay Towards 
a New Theory of Vision, the Treatise Concerning the Prin- 
ciples of Human Knowledge, and the Three Dialogues, be- 
tween the ages of twenty-four and twenty-eight ; and thus 
comes very near to Hume, both in precocity and in influ- 
ence ; but his investigations are more limited in their 
scope than those of his Scottish contemporary. 

The first and second volumes of the Treatise, contain- 
ing Book L, " Of the Understanding," and Book IL, *' Of 
the Passions," were published in January, 1739.^ The 
publisher gave fifty pounds for the copyright ; which is 
probably more than an unknown writer of twenty-seven 
years of age would get for a similar work at the present 
time. But, in other respects, its success fell far short of 
Hume's expectations. In a letter dated the 1st of June, 
1739, he writes: — 



^ Letter to Gilbert Elliot of Minto, 1751. "So vast an undertak- 
ing, planned before I was one-and-twenty, and composed before twen- 
ty-five, must necessarily be very defective. I have repented my haste 
a hundred and a hundred times." 

2 So says Mr. Burton, and that he is right is proved by a letter of 
Hume's, dated February 13, 1739, in which he writes, " 'Tis now a 
fortnight since my book was published." But it is a curious illus- 
tration of the value of testimony, that Hume, ini¥^ Own Life^ states : 
"In the end of 1738 I published my Treatise, and immediately went 
down to my mother and my brother." 



10 HUME. [chap. 

" I am not mucli in the humour of such compositions at 
present, having received news from London of the success 
of my Philosophy^ which is but indifferent, if I may judge by 
the sale of the book, and if I may believe my bookseller." 

This, however, indicates a very different reception from 
that which Hume, looking through the inverted telescope 
of old age, ascribes to the Treatise in My Oivn Life. 

" Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my 
TreatiBe of Human Nature. It fell deadborn from the press 
without reaching such a distinction as even to excite a mur- 
mur among the zealots." 

As a matter of fact, it was fully, and^ on the whole, re- 
spectfully and appreciatively, reviewed in the History of 
the Works of the Learned for November, 1739.^ Who- 
ever the reviewer may have been, he was a man of dis- 
cernment, for he says that the work bears " incontestable 
marks of a great capacity, of a soaring genius, but young, 
and not yet thoroughly practised ;" and he adds, that we 
shall probably have reason to consider " this, compared 
with the later productions, in the same light as we view 
the juvenile works of a Milton, or the first manner of 
a Eaphael or other celebrated painter." In a letter to 
Hutcheson, Hume merely speaks of this article as " some- 
what abusive ;" so that his vanity, being young and cal- 
low, seems to have been correspondingly wide -mouthed 
and hard to satiate. 

It must be confessed that, on this occasion, no less than 
on that of his other publications, Hume exhibits no small 
share of the craving after mere notoriety and vulgar suc- 
cess, as distinct from the pardonable, if not honourable, 

^ Burton, Life^ vol. i. p. 109, 



I.] FORSAKES PHILOSOPHY. 11 

ambition for solid and enduring fame, wliicli would have 
harmonised better with his philosophy. Indeed, it ap- 
pears to be by no means improbable that this peculiarity 
of Hume's moral constitution was the cause of his grad- 
ually forsaking philosophical studies, after the publication 
of the third part {On Morals) of the Treatise^ in 1740, 
and turning to those political and historical topics which 
were likely to yield, and did in fact yield, a much better 
return of that sort of success which his soul loved. The 
Philosophical Essays Concerning the Human Understand- 
ing^ which afterwards became the Inquiry^ is not much 
more than an abridgment and recast, for popular use, of 
parts of the TrecUise^ with the addition of the essays on 
Miracles and on Necessity. In style, it exhibits a great 
improvement on the Treatise ; but the substance, if not 
deteriorated, is certainly not improved. Hume does not 
really bring his mature powers to bear upon his early 
speculations, in the later work. The crude fruits have not 
been ripened, but they have been ruthlessly pruned av/ay, 
along with the branches which bore them. The result is 
a pretty shrub enough ; but not the tree of knowledge, 
with its roots firmly fixed in fact, its brandies perennially 
budding forth into new truths, which Hume might have 
reared. Perhaps, after all, worthy Mrs. Hume was, in the 
highest sense, right. Davie was "wake -minded," not to 
see that the w^orld of philosophy was his to overrun and 
subdue, if he would but persevere in the w^ork he had be- 
gun. But no — he must needs turn aside for "" success " : 
and verily he had his reward ; but not the crown he might 
have won. 

In 1740, Hume seems to have made an acquaintance 
which rapidly ripened into a life-long friendship. Adam 
Smith was at that time a boy student of seventeen at the 



12 HUME. [chap. 

University of Glasgow; and Hume sends a copy of the 
Treatise to " Mr. Smith," apparently on the recommenda- 
tion of the well-known Hutcheson, Professor of Moral 
Philosophy in the university. It is a remarkable evi- 
dence of Adam Smith's early intellectual development, 
that a youth of his age should be thought worthy of such 
a present. 

In 1741 Hume published anonymously, at Edinburgh, 
the first volume of Essays Moral and Political j which was 
followed in 1742 by the second volume. 

These pieces are written in an admirable style, and, 
though arranged without apparent method, a system of 
political philosophy may be gathered from their contents. 
Thus the third essay. That Politics may he reduced to a 
Sciewce, defends that thesis, and dwells on the importance 
of forms of government. 

" So great is the force of laws and of particular forms of 
government, and so little dependence have they on the hu- 
mours and tempers of men, that consequences almost as gen- 
eral and certain may sometimes be deduced from them as 
any which the mathematical sciences afford us." — (III. 15.) 
{8ee p. 45.) 

Hume proceeds to exemplify the evils which inevitably 
flow from universal suffrage, from aristocratic privilege, 
and from elective monarchy, by historical examples, and 
concludes : — 

"That an hereditary prince, a nobility without vassals, 
and a people voting by their representatives, form the best 
monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy." — (III. 18.) 

If we reflect that the following passage of the same es- 
say was written nearly a century and a half ago, it would 



I.] POLITICAL DOCTRINES. 13 

seem that whatever other changes may have taken place, 
political warfare remains in statu quo : — 

" Those who either attack or defend a minister in such a 
government as ours, where the utmost liberty is allowed, al- 
ways carry matters to an extreme, and exaggerate his merit 
or demerit with regard to the public. His enemies are sure 
to charge him with the greatest enormities, both in domes- 
tic and foreign management; and there is no meanness or 
crime of which, in their judgment, he is not capable. Un- 
necessary wars, scandalous treaties, profusion of public treas- 
ure, oppressive taxes, every kind of maladministration is as- 
cribed to him. To aggravate the charge, his pernicious con- 
duct, it is said, will extend its baneful influence even to pos- 
terity, by undermining the best constitution in the world, 
and disordering that wise system of laws, institutions, and 
customs, by which our ancestors, during so many centuries, 
have been so happily governed. He is not only a wicked 
minister in himself, but has removed every security provided 
against wicked ministers for the future. 

" On the other hand, the partisans of the minister make 
his panegyric rise as high as the accusation against him, and 
celebrate his wise, steady, and moderate conduct in every 
part of his administration. The honour and interest of the 
nation supported abroad, public credit maintained at home, 
persecution restrained, faction subdued : the merit of all 
these blessings is ascribed solely to the minister. At the 
same time, he crowns all his other merits by a religious care 
of the best government in the world, which he has preser^^ ed 
in all its parts, and has transmitted entire, to be the happi- 
ness and security of the latest posterity." — (III. 26.) 

Hume sagely remarks that the panegyric and the accu- 
sation cannot both be true ; and, that what truth there 
may be in either, rather tends to show that our much- 
vaunted constitution does not fulfil its chief object, which 



14 HUME. [chap. 

is to provide a remedy against maladministratioD. And 
if it does not — 

" we are rather beholden to any minister who undermines 
it and affords us the opportunity of erecting a better in its 
place."— (III. 28.) 

The fifth Essay discusses the Origin of Government : — 

" Man, born in a family, is compelled to maintain society 
from necessity, from natural inclination, and from habit. 
The same creature, in his farther progress, is engaged to es- 
tablish political society, in order to administer justice, with- 
out which there can be no peace among them, nor safety, nor 
mutual intercourse. We are therefore to look upon all the 
vast apparatus of our government as having ultimately no 
other object or purpose but the distribution of justice, or, in 
other words, the support of the twelve judges. Kings and 
parliaments, fleets and armies, officers of the court and rev- 
enue, ambassadors, ministers and privy councillors, are all 
subordinate in the end to this part of administration. Even 
the clergy, as their duty leads them to inculcate morality, 
may justly be thought, so far as regards this world, to have 
no other useful object of their institution." — (III. 37.) 

The police theory of government has never been stated 
more tersely : and, if there were only one state in the 
world ; and if we could be certain by intuition, or by the 
aid of revelation, that it is wrong for society, as a corpo- 
rate body, to do anything for the improvement of its mem- 
bers, and thereby indirectly support the twelve judges, no 
objection could be raised to it. 

Unfortunately the existence of rival or inimical nations 
furnishes " kings and parliaments, fleets and armies," with 
a good deal of occupation beyond the support of the 
twelve judges ; and, though the proposition that the State 



I.] POLITICAL DOCTKINES. 15 

has no business to meddle with anything but the admin- 
istration of justice, seems sometimes to be regarded as an 
axiom, it can hardly be said to be intuitively certain, in- 
asmuch as a great many people absolutely repudiate it; 
while, as yet, the attempt to give it the authority of a rev- 
elation has not been made. 

As Hume says with profound truth in the fourth essay. 
On the First Principles of Government : — 

" As force is always on the side of the governed, the gov- 
ernors have nothing to support them but opinion. It is, 
therefore, on opinion only that government is founded; and 
this maxim extends to the most despotic and most military 
governments, as well as to tlie most free and the most popu- 
lar."— (III. 31.) 

But if the whole fabric of social organisation rests on 
opinion, it may surely be fairly argued that, in the inter- 
ests of self-preservation, if for no better reason, society 
has a right to see that the means of forming just opinions 
are placed w^ithin the reach of every one of its members ; 
and, therefore, that due provision for education, at any 
rate, is a right and, indeed, a duty, of the state. 

The three opinions upon which all government, or the 
authority of the few over the many, is founded, says 
Hume, are public interest, right to power, and right to 
property. No government can permanently exist unless 
the majority of the citizens, who are the ultimate deposi- 
tary of Force, are convinced that it serves the general in- 
terest, that it has lawful authority, and that it respects in- 
dividual rights : — 

"A government may endure for several ages, though the 
balance of power and the balance of property do not coin- 
cide. . . . But where the original constitution allows any 



16 HUME. [chap. 

share of power, tliougli small, to an order of men who pos- 
sess a large share of property, it is easy for them gradually 
to stretch their authority, and bring the balance of power to 
coincide, with that of property. This has been the case with 
the House of Commons in England." — (III. 34.) 

Hume then points out that, in his time, the authority of 
the Commons was by no means equivalent to the proper- 
ty and power it represented, and proceeds : — 

" Were the members obliged to receive instructions from 
their constituents, like the Dutch deputies, this would en- 
tirely alter the case ; and if such immense power and riches 
as those of all the Commons of Great Britain were brought 
into the scale, it is not easy to conceive that the crown 
could either influence that multitude of people, or withstand 
that balance of property. It is true, the crown has great in- 
fluence over the collective body in the elections of members ; 
but were this influence, which at present is only exerted 
once in seven years, to be employed in bringing over the 
people to every vote, it would soon be wasted, and no skill, 
popularity, or revenue could support it. I must, therefore, 
be of opinion that an alteration in this particular would in- 
troduce a total alteration in our government, would soon 
reduce it to a pure republic ; and, perhaps, to a republic of 
no inconvenient form." — (III. 35.) 

Viewed by the light of subsequent events, this is sure- 
ly a very remarkable example of political sagacity. The 
members of the House of Commons are not yet delegates ; 
but, with the widening of the suffrage and the rapidly 
increasing tendency to drill and organise the electorate, 
and to exact definite pledges from candidates, they are 
rapidly becoming, if not delegates, at least attorneys for 
committees of electors. The same causes are constantly 
tending to exclude men, who combine a keen sense of self- 



I.] POLITICAL PROGNOSTICATIONS. 17 

respect with large intellectual capacity, from a position in 
which the one is as constantly offended as the other is 
neutralised. Notwithstanding the attempt of George the 
Third to resuscitate the royal authority, Hume's foresight 
has been so completely justified that no one now dreams 
of the crown exerting the slightest influence upon elec- 
tions. 

In the seventh essay, Hume raises a very interesting 
discussion as to the probable ultimate result of the forces 
which were at work in the British Constitution in the 
first part of the eighteenth century : — 

"There has been a sudden and sensible change in the 
opinions of men, within these last fifty years, by the prog- 
ress of learning and of liberty. Most people in this island 
have divested themselves of all superstitious reverence to 
names and authority ; the clergy have much lost their 
credit ; their pretensions and doctrines have been much 
ridiculed ; and even religion can scarcely support itself in 
the world. The mere name ofMng commands little respect ; 
and to talk of a king as God's vicegerent on earth, or to 
give him any of those magnificent titles which formerly 
dazzled mankind, w^ould but excite laughter in every one." 
—(in. 54.) 

In fact, at the present day, the danger to monarchy in 
Britain w^ould appear to lie, not in increasing love for 
equality, for which, except as regards the law, English- 
men have never cared, but rather entertain an aversion ; 
nor in any abstract democratic theories, upon which the 
mass of Englishmen pour the contempt with which they 
view theories in general ; but in the constantly increas- 
ing tendency of monarchy to become slightly absurd, 
from the ever-widening discrepancy between modern po- 
litical ideas and the theory of kingship. As Hume ob- 



18 HUME. [chap. 

serves, even in his time, people had left off mating believe 
that a king was a different species of man from other 
men ; and, since his day, more and more such make-be- 
lieves have become impossible ; until the maintenance of 
kingship in coming generations seems likely to depend 
entirely upon whether it is the general opinion that a 
hereditary president of our virtual republic will serve the 
general interest better than an elective one or not. The 
tendency of public feeling in this direction is patent, but 
it does not follow that a republic is to be the final stage 
of our government. In fact, Hume thinks not : — 

^' It is well known that every government must come to 
a period, and that death is unavoidable to the political, as 
well as to the animal body. But, as one kind of death may 
be preferable to another, it may be inquired, whether it be 
more desirable for the British constitution to terminate in 
a popular government, or in an absolute monarchy ? Here, 
I would frankly declare, that though liberty be preferable 
to slavery, in almost every case ; yet I should rather wish to 
see an absolute monarch than a republic in this island. For 
let us consider what kind of republic we have reason to 
expect. The question is not concerning any fine imaginary 
republic of which a man forms a plan in his closet. There 
is no doubt but a popular government may be imagined 
more perfect than an absolute monarchy, or even than our 
present constitution. But what reason have we to expect 
that any such government will ever be established in Great 
Britain, upon the dissolution of our monarchy? If any 
single person acquire power enough to take our constitution 
to pieces, and put it up anew, he is really an absolute mon- 
arch ; and we have already had an instance of this kind, 
sufficient to convince us that such a person will never resign 
his power, or establish any free government. Matters, there- 
fore, must be trusted to their natural progress and opera- 
tion ; and the House of Commons, according to its present 



I.J POLITICAL PROGNOSTICATIONS. 19 

constitution, must be the only legislature in such a popular 
government. The inconveniences attending such a situa- 
tion of affairs present themselves by thousands. If the 
House of Commons, in such a case, ever dissolve itself, which 
is not to be expected, we may look for a civil war every 
election. If it continue itself, we shall suffer all the tyranny 
of a faction subdivided into new factions. And, as such 
a violent government cannot long subsist, we shall at last, 
after many convulsions and civil wars, find repose in abso- 
lute monarchy, which it would have been happier for us to 
have established peaceably from the beginning. Absolute 
monarchy, therefore, is the easiest death, the true Euthanasia 
of the British constitution. 

^' Thus if we have more reason to be jealous of monarchy, 
because the danger is more imminent from that quarter, 
we have also reason to be more jealous of popular govern- 
ment, because that danger is more terrible. This may teach 
us a lesson of moderation in all our political controversies." 
—(III. 55.) 

One may admire the sagacity of these speculations, and 
the force and clearness with which they are expressed, 
without altogether agreeing with them. That an analogy 
between the social and bodily organism exists, and is, in 
many respects, clear and full of instructive suggestion, is 
undeniable. Yet a state answers, not to an individual, 
but to a generic type ; and there is no reason, in the nat- 
ure of things, why any generic type should die out. The 
type of the pearly Nautilus^ highly organised as it is, has 
persisted with but little change from the Silurian epoch 
till now ; and, so long as terrestrial conditions remain 
approximately similar to what they are at present, there 
is no more reason why it should cease to exist in the next, 
than in the past, hundred million years or so. The true 
ground for doubting the possibility of the establishment 
2 



20 HUME. [CHAP. 

of absolute monarchy in Britain is, that opinion seems 
to have passed through, and left far behind, the stage at 
which such a change would be possible ; and the true 
reason for doubting the permanency of a republic, if it is 
ever established, lies in the fact, that a repubhc requires 
for its maintenance a far higher standard of morality and 
of intelligence in the members of the state than any other 
form of government. Samuel gave the Israelites a king 
because they were not righteous enough to do without 
one, with a pretty plain warning of what they were to 
expect from the gift. And, up to this time, the progress 
of such republics as have been established in the world 
has not been such as to lead to any confident expectation 
that their foundation is laid on a sufficiently secure sub- 
soil of public spirit, morality, and intelligence. On the 
contrary, they exhibit examples of personal corruption and 
of political profligacy as fine as any hotbed of despotism 
has ever produced ; while they fail in the primary duty 
of the administration of justice, as none but an effete des- 
potism has ever failed. - 

Hume has been accused of departing, in his' old age, 
from the liberal principles of his youth ; and, no doubt, he 
was careful, in the later editions of the Essays^ to expunge 
everything that savoured of democratic tendencies. But 
the passage just quoted shows that this was no recanta- 
tion, but simply a confirmation, by his experience of one 
of the most debased periods of English history, of those 
evil tendencies attendant on popular government, of which, 
from the first, he was fully aware. 

In the ninth essay. On the Parties of Great Britain, 
there occurs a passage which, while it affords evidence of 
the marvellous change which has taken place in the social 
condition of Scotland since 1741, contains an assertion re- 



I.] THE CONDITION OF SCOTLAND. 21 

specting the state of the Jacobite party at that time, which 
at first seems surprising: — 

" As violent things have not commonly so long a duration 
as moderate, we actually find that the Jacobite party is al- 
most entirely vanished from among us, and that the distinc- 
tion of Court and Country^ which is but creeping in at Lon- 
don, is the only one that is ever mentioned in this kingdom. 
Beside the violence and openness of the Jacobite party, an- 
other reason has perhaps contributed to produce so sudden 
and so visible an alteration in this part of Britain. There 
are only two ranks of men among us ; gentlemen who have 
some fortune and education, and the meanest slaving poor ; 
without any considerable number of that middlirg rank of 
men which abound more in England, both in cities and in 
the country, than in any other part of the world. The slav- 
ing poor are incapable of any principles ; gentlemen may be 
converted to true principles by time and experience. The 
middling rank of men have curiosity and knowledge enough 
to form principles, but not enough to form true ones, or cor- 
rect any prejudices that they may have imbibed. And it is 
among the middling rank of people that Tory principles do 
at present prevail most in England." — (III. 80, note.) 

Considering that the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 broke 
out only four years after this essay was published, the as- 
sertion that the Jacobite party had " almost entirely van- 
ished in 1741" sounds strange enough; and the passage 
which contains it is omitted in the third edition of the jE's- 
sa?/5, published in 1748. JSTevertheless, Hume was proba- 
bly right, as the outbreak of '45 was little better than a 
Highland raid, and the Pretender obtained no important 
following in the Lowlands. 

No less curious, in comparison with what would be said 
nowadays, is Hume's remark in the Essay on the Rise of 
the Arts and Sciences that — 



22 HUME. [chap. 

" The English are become sensible of the scandalous li- 
centiousness of their stage from the example of the French 
decency and morals." — (III. 135.) 

And it is perhaps as surprising to be told, by a man of 
Hume's literary power, that the first polite prose in the 
English language was v/ritten by Swift. Locke and Tem- 
ple (with whom Sprat is astoundingly conjoined) '^ knew 
too little of the rules of art to be esteemed elegant writ- 
ers," and the prose of Bacon, Harrington, and Milton is 
" altogether stiff and pedantic." Hobbes, who, whether 
he should be called a " polite" writer or not, is a master of 
vigorous English ; Clarendon, Addison, and Steele (the last 
two, surely, w^ere " polite " writers, in all conscience) are 
not mentioned. 

On the subject of National Character^ about which 
more nonsense, and often very mischievous nonsense, has 
been and is talked than upon any other topic, Hume's 
observations are full of sense and shrewdness. He dis- 
tinguishes between the moral and the physical causes of 
national character, enumerating under the former — 

" The nature of the government, the revolutions of public 
affairs, the plenty or penury in which people live, the situa- 
tion of tlie nation with regard to its neighbours, and such 
like circumstances." — (HI. 225.) 

and under the latter : — 

*^ Those qualities of the air and climate, which are sup- 
posed to work insensibly on the temper, by altering the tone 
and habit of the body, nnd giving a particular complexion, 
which, though reflexioti and reason may sometimes overcome 
it, will yet prevail among the generality of mankind, and 
have an influence on their manners." — (HI. 225.) 

While admitting and exemplifying the great influence 
of moral causes, Ilunie remarks — 



I.] NATIONAL CHARACTER. 23 

" As to physical causes, I am inclined to doubt altogether 
of their operation in this particular; nor do I think that 
men owe anything of their temper or genius to the air, food, 
or climate."— (III. 227.) 

Hume certainly would not have accepted the " rice the- 
ory " in explanation of the social state of the Hindoos ; 
and, it may be safely assumed, that he would not have 
had recourse to the circumambience of the " melancholy 
main " to account for the troublous history of Ireland. 
He supports his views by a variety of strong arguments, 
among which, at the present conjuncture, it is worth noting 
that the following occurs — 

" Where any accident, as a difference in language or relig- 
ion, keex3s two nations, inhabiting the same country, from 
mixing with one another, they will preserve during several 
centuries a distinct and even opposite set of manners. The 
integrity, gravity, and bravery of the Turks form an exact 
contrast to the deceit, levity, and cowardice of the modern 
Greeks."— (III. 233.) 

The question of the influence of race, which plays so 
great a part in modern political speculations, was hardly 
broached in Hume's time, but he had an inkling of its im- 
portance : — 

" I am apt to suspect the Negroes to be naturally inferior 
to the Whites. There scarcely ever was a civilised nation 
of that complexion, nor even any individual, eminent either 
in action or speculation. . . . Such a uniform and constant 
difference [betw^een the negroes and the wdiites] could not 
happen in so many countries and ages, if nature had not 
made an original distinction between these breeds of men. 
... In Jamaica, indeed, they talk of one Negro as a man 
of parts and learning; but it is likely he is admired for 
slender accomplishments, like a parrot wdio speaks a few 
w^ords plainly."— (TIL 236.) 



24 HUME. [chap. 

The Essays met with the success they deserved. Hume 
wrote to Henry Home in June, 1742 :— 

"The Essays are all sold in London, as I am informed 
by two letters from English gentlemen of my acquaintance. 
There is a demand for them ; and, as one of them tells me, 
Innys, the great bookseller in Paul's Churchyard, wonders 
there is not a new edition, for he cannot find copies for his 
customers. I am also told that Dr. Butler has everywhere 
recommended them; so that I hope that they will have 
some success." 

Hume had sent Butler a copy of the Treatise, and had 
called upon him in London, but he was out of town ; and 
being shortly afterwards made Bishop of Bristol, Hume 
seems to have thought that further advances on his part 
might not be well received. 

Greatly comforted by this measure of success, Hume re- 
mained at Ninewells, rubbing up his Greek, until 1745; 
when, at the mature age of thirty-four, he made his entry 
into practical life, by becoming bear-leader to the Marquis 
of Annandale, a young nobleman of feeble body and fee- 
bler mind. As might have been predicted, this venture 
was not more fortunate than his previous ones ; and, af- 
ter a year's endurance, diversified latterly with pecuniary 
squabbles, in which Hume's tenacity about a somewhat 
small claim is remarkable, the engagement came to an 
end. 



II.] LATER YEARS. 25 



CHAPTER 11. 

LATER YEARS I THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 

In 1744, Hume's friends had endeavoured to procure his 
nomination to tlie Chair of "Ethics and pneumatic phi- 
losophy"^ in the University of Edinburgh. About this 
matter he writes to his friend William Mure : — 

"The accusation of heresy, deism, scepticism, atheism, 
&c., &c., &c., was started against me ; but never took, being 
bore down by the contrary authority of all the good compa- 
ny in town." 

If the " good company in town " bore down the first 
three of these charges, it is to be hoped, for the sake of 
their veracity, that they knew their candidate chiefly as 
the very good company that he always was ; and had paid 
as little attention, as good company usually does, to so 
solid a work as the Treatise, Hume expresses a naive 
surprise, not unmixed with indignation, that Hutcheson 
and Leechman, both clergymen and sincere, though liberal, 
professors of orthodoxy, should have expressed doubts as 

^ " Pneumatic philosophy " must not be confounded with the the- 
ory of elastic fluids ; though, as Scottish chairs have, before now, 
combined natural with civil history, the mistake would be pardon- 
able. 



26 HUME. [chap. 

to his fitness for becoming a professedly Presbyterian 
teacher of Presbyterian youth. The town council, howev- 
er, would not have him, and filled up the place with a safe 
nobody. 

In May, 1746, a new prospect opened. General St. 
Clair was appointed to the command of an expedition to 
Canada, and he invited Hume, at a week's notice, to be 
his secretary ; to which ofiice that of judge-advocate was 
afterwards added. 

Hume writes to a friend : " The ofiice is very Qfenteel, 
105. a day, perquisites, and no expenses;" and, to another, 
he speculates on the chance of procuring a company in an 
American regiment. "But this I build not on, nor in- 
deed am I very fond of it," he adds ; and this was fortu- 
nate, for the expedition, after dawdling away the summer 
in port, was suddenly diverted to an attack on L'Orient, 
where it achieved a huge failure and returned ignomini- 
ously to England. 

A letter to Henry Home, written when this unlucky ex- 
pedition was recalled, shows that Hume had already seri- 
ously turned his attention to history. Referring to an 
invitation to go over to Flanders with the General, he 
says : 

" Had I any fortune which would give me a prospect of 
leisure and opportunity to prosecute my historical projects^ 
nothing could be more useful to me, and I should pick up 
more literary knowledge in one campaign by being in the 
General's family, and being introduced frequently to the 
Duke's, than most officers could do after many years' service. 
But to what can all this serve ? I am a philosopher, and so 
I suppose must continue." 

But this vaticination was shortly to prove erroneous. 
Hume seems to have made a very favourable impression on 



il] official appointments. 21 

General St. Clair, as lie did upon every one with whom he 
came into personal contact ; for, being charged with a mis- 
sion to the court of Turin, in 1748, the General insisted 
upon the appointment of Hume as his secretary. He fur- 
ther made him one of his aides-de-camp ; so that the phi- 
losopher was obligad to encase his more than portly, and 
by no means elegant, figure in a military uniform. Lord 
Charlemont, who met him at Turin, says he was " dis- 
guised in scarlet," and that he wore his uniform " like a 
grocer of the train-bands." Hume, always ready for a 
joke at his own expense, tells of the considerate kindness 
with which, at a reception at Vienna, the Empress-dowa- 
ger released him and his friends from the necessity of 
walking backwards. " We esteemed ourselves very much 
obliged to her for this attention, especially my compan- 
ions, who were desperately afraid of my falling on them 
and crushing them." 

Notwithstanding the many attractions of this appoint- 
ment, Hume writes that he leaves home " with infinite re- 
gret, where I had treasured up stores of study and plans 
of thinking for many years;" and his only consolation is 
that the opportunity of becoming conversant with state 
affairs may be profitable : — 

" I shall have an opportunity of seeing courts and camps : 
and if I can afterward be so happy as to attain leisure and 
other opportunities, this knowledge may even turn to ac- 
count to me as a man of letters, which I confess has always 
been the sole object of my ambition. I have long had an in- 
tention, in my riper years, of composing some history ; and I 
question not but some greater experience in the operations 
of the field and the intrigues of the cabinet will be requi- 
site, in order to enable me to speak with judgment on these 
subjects." 

2* 



28 HUME. [chap. 

Hume returned to London in 1749, and, during hia 
stay there, his mother died, to his heartfelt sorrow. A 
curious story in connection with this event is told by Dr. 
Carlyle, who knew Hume well, and whose authority is per- 
fectly trustworthy. 

" Mr. Boyle hearing of it, soon after went to his apartment, 
for they lodged in the same house, where he found him in 
the deepest affliction and in a flood of tears. After the usual 
topics and condolences Mr. Boyle said to him, 'My friend, 
you owe this uncommon grief to having thrown off the prin- 
ciples of religion; for if you had not, you would have been 
consoled with the firm belief that the good lady, who was 
not only the best of mothers, but the most pious of Christians, 
was completely happy in the realms of the just.' To which 
David replied, 'Though I throw out my speculations to 
entertain the learned and metaphysical world, yet in other 
things I do not think so differently from the rest of the 
world as you imagine.' " 

If Hume had told this story to Dr. Carlyle, the latter 
would have said so ; it must therefore have come from 
Mr. Boyle ; and one would like to have the opportunity 
of cross-examining that gentleman as to Hume's exact 
words and their context, before implicitly accepting his 
version of the conversation. Mr. Boyle's experience of 
mankind must have been small, if he had not seen the 
firmest of believers overwhelmed with grief by a like Joss, 
and as completely inconsolable. Hume may have thrown 
off Mr. Boyle's " principles of religion," but he was none 
the less a very honest man, perfectly open and candid, and 
the last person to use ambiguous phraseology, among his 
friends ; unless, indeed, he saw no other way of putting a 
stop to the intrusion of unmannerly twaddle amongst the 



II.] DIALOGUES ON NATURAL RELIGION. 29 

bitter-sweet memories stirred in his affectionate nature by 
so heavy a blow. 

The Philosophical Essays or Inquiry was published in 
1748, while Hume was away with General St. Clair, and 
on his return to England he had the mortification to find 
it overlooked in the hubbub caused by Middleton's Free 
Inquiry, and its bold handling of the topic of the Essay 
on Miracles, by which Hume doubtless expected the pub- 
lic to be startled. c 

Between 1749 and 1751, Hume resided at Ninewells, 
with his brother and sister, and busied himself with the 
composition of his most finished, if not his most impor- 
tant works, the Dialogues on Natural Religion, the In- 
quiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, and the Polit- 
ical Discourses, 

The Dialogues on Natural Religion were touched and 
re-touched, at intervals, for a quarter of a century, and 
were not published till after Hume's death : but the In- 
quiry Concerning the Principles of Morals appeared in 
1751, and the Political Discourses in 1752. Full refer- 
ence will be made to the two former in the exposition of 
Hume's philosophical views. The last has been well said 
to be the " cradle of political economy : and much as 
that science has been investigated and expounded in later 
times, these earliest, shortest, and simplest developments 
of its principles are still read with delight even by those 
who are masters of all the literature of this great sub- 
ject." ' 

The Wealth of Nations, the masterpiece of Hume's 
close friend, Adam Smith, it must be remembered, did not 
appear before 1776, so that, in political economy, no less 

^ Burton's Life of David Hume, i. p. 354. 



30 HUME. [chap. 

than in philosophy, Hume was an original, a daring, and 
a fertile innovator. 

The Political Essays had a great and rapid success; 
translated into French in 1753, and again in 1754, they 
conferred a European reputation upon their author ; and, 
what was more to the purpose, influenced the later French 
school of economists of the eighteenth century. 

By this time, Hume had not only attained a high repu- 
tation in the world of letters, but he considered himself a 
man of independent fortune. His frugal habits had ena- 
bled him to accumulate £1,000, and he tells Michael Ram- 
say in 1751 : — 

^' While interest remains as at present, I have £50 a year, 
a hundred pounds' worth of books, great store of linens and 
fine clothes, and near £100 in my pocket ; along with order, 
frugality, a strong spirit of independency, good health, a 
contented humour, and an unabated love of study. In these 
circumstances I must esteem myself one of the happy and 
fortunate ; and so far from being willing to draw my ticket 
over again in the lottery of life, there are very few prizes 
with which I would make an exchange. After some delib- 
eration, I am resolved to settle in Edinburgh, and hope I 
shall be able with these revenues to say with Horace : — 

' Est bona librorum et provisse frugis in annum 
Copia.' " 

It would be difficult to find a better example of the 
honourable independence and cheerful self-reliance which 
should distinguish a man of letters, and which character- 
ised Hume throughout his career. By honourable effort, 
the boy's noble ideal of life became the man's reality ; 
and, at forty, Hume had the happiness of finding that he 
had not wasted his youth in the pursuit of illusions, but 



II.] INDEPENDENCE AND SELF-HELIANCE. 31 

that "the solid certainty of waking bliss" lay before 
him, in the free play of his powers in their appropriate 
sphere. 

In 1751 Hume removed to Edinburgh, and took up his 
abode on a flat in one of those prodigious houses in the 
Lawnmarket, which still excite the admiration of tourists ; 
afterwards moving to a house in the Canongate. His sis- 
ter joined him, adding £30 a year to the common stock ; 
and, in one of his charmingly playful letters to Dr. Cle- 
phane, he thus describes his establishment, in 1753. 

" I shall exult and triumph to you a little that I have now 
at last — being turned of forty, to my own honour, to that of 
learning, and to that of the present age — arrived at the dig- 
nity of being a householder. 

"About seven months ago, I got a house of my own, and 
completed a regular family, consisting of a head, viz., myself, 
and two inferior members, a maid and a cat. My sister has 
since joined me, and keeps me company. With frugality, I 
can reach, I find, cleanliness, warmth, light, plenty, and con- 
tentment. What would you have more ? Independence ? I 
have it in a supreme degree. Honour? That is not alto- 
gether wanting. Grace ? That will come in time. A wife ? 
That is none of the indispensable requisites of life. Books ? 
That is one of them ; and I have more than I can use. In 
short, I cannot find any pleasure of consequence which I 
am not possessed of in a greater or less degree ; and, with- 
out any great effort of philosophy, I may be easy and satis- 
fied. 

"As there is no happiness without occupation, I have be- 
gun a work which will occupy me several years, and which 
yields me much satisfaction. 'Tis a History of Britain from 
the Union of the Crowns to the present time. I have al- 
ready finished the reign of King James. My friends flatter 
me (by this I mean that they don't flatter me) that I have 
succeeded." 



82 HUME. [chap. 

In 1752, the Faculty of Advocates elected Hume their 
librarian, an office which, though it yielded little emolu- 
ment — the salary was only forty pounds a year — was 
valuable, as it placed the resources of a large library at his 
disposal. The proposal to give Hume even this paltry 
place caused a great outcry, on the old score of infidelity. 
But as Hume writes, in a jubilant letter to Clephane (Feb- 
ruary 4, 1752) : — 

" I carried the election by a considerable majority. . . . 
What is more extraordinary, the cry of religion could not 
hinder the ladies from being violently my partisans, and I 
ow^e my success in a great measure to their solicitations. 
One has broke off all commerce with her lover because he 
voted against me ! And Mr. Lockhart, in a speech to the 
Faculty, said there was no walking the streets, nor even en- 
joying one's own fireside, on account of their importunate 
zeal. The town says that even his bed was not safe for him, 
though his wife was cousin-german to my antagonist. 

'' 'Twas vulgarly given out that the contest was between 
Deists and Christians, and when the news of my success 
came to the playhouse, the whisper rose that the Christians 
were defeated. Are you not suqorised that we could keep 
our popularity, notwithstanding tliis imputation, which my 
friends could not deny to be well founded V 

It would seem that the "good company" was less en- 
terprising in its asseverations in this canvass than in the 
last. 

The first volume of the History of Great Britain^ con- 
taining the reign of James I. and Charles /., was published 
in 1754. At first, the sale was large, especially in Edin- 
burgh, and if notoriety ^:)er se was Hume^s object, he at- 
tained it. But he liked applause as well as fame, and, to 
his bitter disappointment, he says : — 



II.] INDEPENDENT SYMPATHY. 33 

" I was assailed by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, 
and even detestation : English, Scotch, and Irish, Whig and 
Tory, Churchman and Sectary, Freethinker and Religionist, 
Patriot and Courtier, united in their rage against the man 
who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of 
Charles I. and the Earl of Strafford ; and after the first ebul- 
litions of their fury were over, what w^as still more mortify- 
ing, the book seemed to fall into oblivion. Mr. Millar told 
me that in a twelvemonth he sold only forty-five copies of 
it. I scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the three king- 
doms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure the 
book. I must only except the primate of England, Dr. Her- 
ring, and the primate of Ireland, Dr. Stone, which seem two 
odd exceptions. These dignified prelates separately sent me 
messages not to be discouraged." 

It certainly is odd to think of David Hume being com- 
forted in his affliction by the independent and sponta- 
neous sympathy of a pair of archbishops. But the in- 
stincts of the dignified prelates guided them rightly ; for, 
as the great painter of English history in Whig pigments 
has been careful to point out,^ Hume's historical picture, 
though a great work, drawn by a master hand, has all the 
lights Tory, and all the shades Whig. 

Hume's ecclesiastical enemies seem to have thought that 
their opportunity had now arrived ; and an attempt was 
made to get the General Assembly of 1756 to appoint 
a committee to inquire into his writings. But, after a 
keen debate, the proposal was rejected by fifty votes to 
seventeen. Hume does not appear to have troubled him- 
self about the matter, and does not even think it worth 
mention in My Own Life, 

In 1756 he tells Clephane that he is worth £1,600 ster- 

^ Lord Macaulay, Article on History, EdinhurgJi Review^ vol. Ixvii. 



34 HUME. [chap. 

ling, and consequently master of an income which must 
have been wealth to a man of his frugal habits. In the 
same year, he published the second volume of the Histo- 
ry^ which met with a much better reception than the first ; 
and, in 1757, one of his most remarkable works, the Nat- 
ural History of Religion^ appeared. In the same year, he 
resigned his office of librarian to the Faculty of Advo- 
cates, and he projected removal to London, probably to 
superintend the publication of the additional volume of 
the History. 

^'I shall certainly be in London next summer; and proba- 
bly to remain there during life : at least, if I can settle my- 
self to my mind, which I beg you to have an eye to. A 
room in a sober, discreet family, w^ho would not be averse to 
admit a sober, discreet, virtuous, regular, quiet, good-natured 
man of a bad character — such a room, I say, would suit me 
extremely." ^ 

The promised visit took place in the latter part of the 
year 1758, and he remained in the metropolis for the 
greater part of 1759. The two volumes of the History 
of England under the House of Tudor were published in 
London, shortly after Hume's return to Edinburgh ; and, 
according to his own account, they raised almost as great 
a clamour as the first two had done. 

Busily occupied with the continuation of his historical 
labours, Hume remained in Edinburgh until 1763; when, 
at the request of Lord Hertford, who was going as am- 
bassador to France, he was appointed to the embassy ; 
with the promise of the secretaryship, and, in the mean- 
while, performing the duties of that office. At first, 
Hume declined the offer ; but, as it was particularly hon- 

^ Letter to Clephane, 8rd September, 1757. 



II.] SECRETAEY OF THE FEENCH EMBASSY. 85 

ourabie to so well abused a man, on account of Lord Hert- 
ford's high reputation for virtue and piety, ^ and no less 
advantageous by reason of the increase of fortune which 
it secured to him, he eventually accepted it. 

In France, Hume's reputation stood far higher than in 
Britain ; several of his works had been translated ; he had 
exchanged letters with Montesquieu and with Helvetius ; 
Rousseau had appealed to him ; and the charming Ma- 
dame de Boufflers had drawn him into a correspondence, 
marked by almost passionate enthusiasm on her part, and 
as fair an imitation of enthusiasm as Hume was capable 
of, on his. In the extraordinary mixture of learning, wit, 
humanity, frivolity, and profligacy which then character- 
ised the highest French society, a new^ sensation was 
worth anvthinof, and it mattered little whether the cause 
thereof w^as a philosopher or a poodle ; so Hume had a 
great success in the Parisian world. Great nobles feted 
him, and great ladies were not content unless the "gros 
David" was to be seen at their receptions and in their 
boxes at the theatre. "At the opera his broad unmean- 
ing face was usually to be seen entre deux jolis minois,''^ 
says Lord Charlemont.^ Hume's cool head was by no 

^ "You must know that Lord Hertford has so high a character 
for piety, that his taking me by the hand is a kind of regeneration 
to me, and all past offences are now wiped off. But all these views 
are trifling to one of my age and temper." — Hume to Edmondsto7ie^ 
9th January, 1'764. Lord Hertford had procured him a pension of 
£200 a year for life from the King, and the secretaryship was worth 
£1,000 a year. 

2 Madame d'Epinay gives a ludicrous account of Hume's per- 
formance when pressed into a tableau^ as a Sultan between two 
slaves, personated for the occasion by two of the prettiest women 
in Paris : — 

" n les regarde attentivement, il se fixtppe le ventre et les genoux 



86 HUME. [chap. 

means turned ; but he took the goods the gods provided 
with much satisfaction, and everywhere won golden opin- 
ions by his unaffected good sense and thorough kindness 
of heart. 

Over all this part of Hume's career, as over the surpris- 
ing episode of the quarrel with Rousseau, if that can be 
called quarrel which was lunatic malignity on Rousseau's 
side and thorough generosity and patience on Hume's, I 
may pass lightly. The story is admirably told by Mr. 
Burton, to whose volumes I refer the reader. Nor need I 
dwell upon Hume's short tenure of office in London, as 
Under-Secretary of State, between 1767 and 1769. Suc- 
cess and wealth are rarely interesting, and Hume's case is 
no exception to the rule. 

According to his own description, the cares of official 
life were not overwhelming. 

"My way of life here is very uniform and by no means 
disagreeable. I have all the forenoon in the Secretary's 
house, from ten till three, when there arrive from time to 
time messengers that bring me all the secrets of the king- 
dom, and, indeed, of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. I 
am seldom hurried ; but have leisure at intervals to take up 
a book, or write a private letter, or converse with a friend 
that may call for me ; and from dinner to bed-time is all my 
own. If you add to this that the person with whom I have 
the chief, if not only, transactions, is the most reasonable, 
equal - tempered, and gentleman - like man imaginable, and 

a plusieurs reprises et ne trouve jamais autre chose a leur dire que 
Eh Men ! mes demoiselles. — Eh Men ! vous voild done. . . . Eh Men ! 
vous voild . . . vous voild iei ? Cette phrase dura un quart d'heure 
sans qu'il put en sortir. Une d'elles se leva d'impatienee : Ah, dit- 
elle, je m'en etois bien doutee, cet homme n'est bon qu'a manger du 
veau !" — Burton's Life of Hume^ vol. ii. p, 224. 



y 



II.] SUCCESS AND WEALTH. 8'7 

Lady Aylesbury the same, you will certainly think I have no 
reason to complain ; and I am far from complaining. I only 
shall not regret when my duty is over; because to me the 
situation can lead to nothing, at least in all probability ; and 
reading, and sauntering, and lounging, and dozing, which I 
call thinking, is my supreme happiness — I mean my full con- 
tentment." 

Hume's duty was soon over, and he returned to Ed- 
inburgh in 1769, "very opulent" in the possession of 
£1,000 a year, and determined to take what remained to 
him of life pleasantly and easily. In October, 1769, he 
writes to Elliot : — 

" I have been settled here two months, and am here body 
and soul, without casting the least thought of regret to 
London, or even to Paris. ... I live still, and must for a 
twelvemonth, in my old house in Jameses Court, which is 
very cheerful and even elegant, but too small to display my 
great talent for cookery, the science to which I intend to ad- 
dict the remaining years of my life. I have just now lying 
on the table before me a receipt for making sou^^e a la reine^ 
copied with my own hand ; for beef and cabbage (a charm- 
ing dish) and old mutton and old claret nobody excels me. 
I make also sheep's-head broth in a manner that Mr. Keith 
S2)caks of for eight days after ; and the Due de Mvernois 
would bind himself apprentice to my lass to learn it. I 
have already sent a challenge to David Moncreiff: you will 
see that in a twelvemonth he will take to the writing of 
history, the field I have deserted ; for as to the giving of 
dinners, he can now have no further pretensions. I should 
have made a very bad use of my abode in Paris if I could 
not get the better of a mere provincial like him. All my 
friends encourage me in this ambition ; as thinking it will 
redound very much to my honour." 

In 1770, Hume built himself a house in the New Town 



38 HUME. [chap. 

of Edinburgh, which was then springing up. It was the 
first house in the street, and a frolicsome young lady 
chalked upon the wall *' St. David's Street." Hume's 
servant complained to her master, who replied, '' Nev- 
er mind, lassie, many a better man has been made a 
saint of before," and the street retains its title to this 
day. 

In the following six years, the house in St. David's 
Street was the centre of the accomplished and refined so- 
ciety which then distinguished Edinburgh. Adam Smith, 
Blair, and Ferguson were within easy reach ; and what 
remains of Hume's correspondence with Sir Gilbert Elliot, 
Colonel Edmonstone, and Mrs. Cockburn gives pleasant 
glimpses of his social surroundings, and enables us to 
understand his contentment with his absence from the 
more perturbed, if more brilliant, worlds of Paris and 
London. 

Towards London, Londoners, and indeed Englishmen 
in general, Hume entertained a dislike, mingled with con- 
tempt, which was as nearly rancorous as any emotion of 
his could be. During his residence in Paris, in 1764 and 
1765, he writes to Blair: — 

"The taste for literature is neither decayed nor depraved 
here, as with the barbarians who inhabit the banks of the 
Thames.'' 

And he speaks of the "general regard paid to genius and 
learning " in France as one of the points in which it most 
differs from England. Ten years later, he cannot even 
thank Gibbon for his History without the left-handed 
compliment, that he should never have expected such an 
excellent work from the pen of an Englishman. Early 
in 1765, Hume writes to Millar: — 



II.] DISLIKE OF ENGLISHMEN. 39 

" The rage and prejudice of parties frighten me, and, above 
all, this rage against the Scots, which is so dishonourable, 
and indeed so infamous, to the English nation. We hear 
that it increases every day without the least appearance of 
provocation on our part. It has frequently made me resolve 
never in my life to set foot on English ground. I dread, if 
I should undertake a more modern history, the impertinence 
and ill-manners to which it would expose me ; and I was 
willing to know from you whether former prejudices had so 
far subsided as to ensure me of a good reception." 

His fears were kindly appeased by Millar's assurance that 
the English were not prejudiced against the Scots in gen- 
eral, but against the particular Scot, Lord Bute, who was 
supposed to be the guide, philosopher, and friend, of both 
Dowager Queen and King. 

To care nothing about literature, to dislike Scotchmen, 
and to be insensible to the merits of David Hume, was a 
combination of iniquities on the part of the English na- 
tion, which would have been amply sufficient to ruffle the 
temper of the philosophic historian, who, without being 
foolishly vain, had certainly no need of what has been 
said to be the one form of prayer in which his country- 
men, torn as they are by theological differences, agree ; 
" Lord ! gie us a gude conceit o' oursels.'^ But when, to 
all this, these same Southrons added a passionate admira- 
tion for Lord Chatham, who was in Hume's eyes a char- 
latan ; and filled up the cup of their abominations by 
cheering for " Wilkes and Liberty," Hume's wrath knew 
no bounds, and, between 1768 and 1770, he pours a per- 
fect Jeremiad into the bosom of his friend Sir Gilbert 
Elliot. 

" Oh ! how I long to see America and the East Indies re- 
volted, totally and finally — the revenue reduced to half— 



40 HUME. [chap. 

public credit fully discredited by bankruptcy — the third of 
London in ruins, and the rascally mob subdued! I think 
I am not too old to despair of being witness to all these 
blessings. 

" I am delighted to see the daily and hourly progress of 
madness and folly and wickedness in England. The con- 
summation of these qualities are the true ingredients for 
making a fine narrative in history, especially if followed by 
some signal and ruinous convulsion — as I hope will soon be 
the case with that pernicious people !" 

Even from the secure haven of James's Court, the male- 
dictions continue to pour forth : — 

" Nothing but a rebellion and bloodshed will open the 
eyes of that deluded people ; though were they alone con- 
cerned, I think it is no matter what becomes of them. . . . 
Our government has become a chimera, and is too perfect, 
in point of liberty, for so rude a beast as an Englishman; 
who is a man, a bad animal too, corrupted by above a cen- 
tury of licentiousness. The misfortune is that this liberty 
can scarcely be retrenched without danger of being entirely 
lost ; at least the fatal effects of licentiousness must first be 
made palpable by some extreme mischief resulting from it. 
I may wish that the catastrophe should rather fall on our 
posterity, but it hastens on with such large strides as to 
leave little room for hope. 

'^I am running over again the last edition of my History, 
in order to correct it still further. I either soften or ex- 
punge many villainous seditious Whig strokes which had 
crept into it. I wash that my indignation at the present 
madness, encouraged by lies, calumnies, imposture, and every 
infamous act usual among popular leaders, may not throw 
me into the opposite extreme." 

A wise wish, indeed. Posterity respectfully concurs 
therein ; and subjects Hume's estimate of England and 



II.] HUME'S LAST ILLNESS. 41 

things English to such modifications as it would probably 
have undergone had the wish been fulfilled. 

In 1775 Hume's health began to fail; and, in the 
spring of the following year, his disorder, which appears 
to have been haemorrhage of the bowels, attained such a 
heio'ht that he knew it must be fatal. So he made his 
will, and wrote My Own Life, the conclusion of which is 
one of the most cheerful, simple, and dignified leave-tak- 
ings of life and all its concerns, extant. 

"I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suf- 
fered very little pain from my disorder ; and, what is more 
strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my per- 
son, never suffered a moment's abatement of spirits ; inso- 
much that were I to name the period of my life which I 
should most choose to pass over again, I might be tempted 
to point to this later period. I possess the same ardour as 
ever in study and the same gaiety in company ; I consider, 
besides, that a man of sixty -five, by dying, cuts off only a few 
years of infirmities ; and though I see many symptoms of 
my literary reputation's breaking out at last w^th additional 
lustre, I know that I could have but few years to enjoy it. 
It is difficult to be more detached from life than I am at 
present. 

" To conclude historically with my own character, I am, 
or rather was (for that is the style I must now use in speak- 
ing of myself, which emboldens me the more to speak my 
sentiments) ; I was, I say, a man of mild dispositions, of 
command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour, 
capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and 
of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of 
literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper, 
notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My com- 
pany was not unacceptable to the young and careless, as 
well as to the studious and literary ; and as I took a partic- 
ular pleasure in the company of modest women, I had no 



42 HUME. [ciixiP. 

reason to be displeased with the reception I met with from 
them. In a word, though most men anywise eminent have 
found reason to complain of calumny, I never was touched 
or even attacked by her baleful tooth ; and though I wan- 
tonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious 
factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my behalf of their 
wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to vindicate 
any one circumstance of my character and conduct; not 
but that the zealots, we may well suppose, w^ould have been 
glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage, 
but they could never find any which they thought would 
wear the face of probability. I cannot say there is no van- 
ity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is 
not a misplaced one ; and this is a matter of fact which is 
easily cleared and ascertained." 

Hume died in Edinburgh on the 25th of August, 1776, 
and, a few days later, his body, attended by a great con- 
course of people, who seem to have anticipated for it the 
fate appropriate to the remains of wizards and necro- 
mancers, was deposited in a spot selected by himself, in 
an old burial-ground on the eastern slope of the Calton 
Hill. 

From the summit of this hill, there is a prospect un- 
equalled by any to be seen from the midst of a great city. 
Westward lies the Forth, and beyond it, dimly blue, the 
far away Highland hills ; eastward, rise the bold contours 
of Arthur's Seat and the ru<To:ed crao-s of the Castle rock, 
with the grey Old Town of Edinburgh ; while, far beJow, 
from a maze of crowded thoroughfares, the hoarse mur- 
mur of the toil of a polity of energetic men is borne upon 
the ear. At times, a man may be as solitary here as in 
a veritable wilderness ; and may meditate undisturbedly 
upon the epitome of nature and of man — the kingdoms 
of this world — spread out before him. 



il] the grave on the CALTON hill. 43 

Surely, there is a fitness in the choice of this last rest- 
ing-place by the philosopher and historian, v/ho saw so 
clearly that these two kingdoms form but one realm, gov- 
erned by uniform laws and alike based on impenetrable 
darkness and eternal silence : and, faithful to the last to 
that profound veracity which was the secret of his philo- 
sophic greatness, he ordered that the simple Eoman tomb 
which marks his grave should bear no inscription but 

DAYID HUME 
Born 1711. Died 1776. 

Leaving it to posterity to add the rest. 

It was by the desire and at the suggestion of my friend, 
the Editor of this Series, that I undertook to attempt to 
help posterity in the difficult business of knowing what to 
add. to Hume's epitaph ; and I might, with justice, throw 
upon him the responsibility of my apparent presump- 
tion in occupying a place among the men of letters, who 
are engaged with him, in their proper function of writing 
about Eno-lish Men of Letters. 

That to which succeeding generations have made, are 
making, and will make, continual additions, however, is 
Hume's fame as a philosopher ; and, though I know 
that my plea will add to my offence in some quarters, I 
must plead, in extenuation of my audacity, that philos- 
ophy lies in the province of science, and not in that of 
letters. 

In dealing with Hume's Life, I have endeavoured, as far 
as possible, to make him speak for himself. If the ex- 
tracts from his letters and essays which I have given do 
not sufficientlv show what manner of man he was, I am 
3 



44 HUME. [chap, 

sure that nothing I could say would make the case plain- 
er. In the exposition of Hume's philosophy which fol- 
lows, I have pursued the same plan, and I have applied 
myself to the task of selecting and arranging in system- 
atic order, the passages which appeared to me to contain 
the clearest statements of Hume's opinions. 

I should have been glad to be able to confine myself to 
this duty, and to limit my own comments to so much as 
was absolutely necessary to connect my excerpts. Here 
and there, however, it must be confessed that more is seen 
of my thread than of Hume's beads. My excuse must 
be an ineradicable tendency to try to make things clear; 
while, I may further hope, that there is nothing in what I 
may have said which is inconsistent vv^ith the logical de- 
velopment of Hume's principles. 

My authoi'ity for the facts of Hume's life is the admi- 
rable biography, published in 1846, by Mr. John Hill Bur- 
ton. The edition of Hume's works from which all cita- 
tions are made is that published by Black and Tait in Ed- 
inburgh, in 1826. In this edition, the Essays are reprint- 
ed from the edition of 1777, corrected by the author for 
the press a short time before his death. It is well printed 
in four handy volumes ; and as my copy has long been in 
my possession, and bears marks of much reading, it would 
have been troublesome for me to refer to any other. But, 
for the convenience of those who possess some other edi- 
tion, the following table of the contents of the edition of 
1826, with the paging of the four volumes, is given: — 

YOLTJME I. 

Treatise of Human Natuiie. 

Book I. Of the Understanding^ p. 5 to the end, p. 347. 



II.] CONTENTS OF WORKS. 45 

VOLUME II. 

Treatise of HmiAN JSTature. 

Book II. Of the Passions, p. 3 — p. 215. 

Book III. Of Morals, p. 219— p. 415. 

Dialogues coisfCERNiNa Natural Eeligion, p.419 — p. 548. 

Appendix to the Treatise, p. 551 — p. 5 GO. 

VOLUME III. 

Essays, Moral and Political, p. 3 — p. 282. 

Political Discourses, p. 285 — p. 579. 

VOLUME IV. 

An Inquiry concerning Human Understanding, p. 3 — 

p. 233. 

An Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, p. 

237— p. 431. 

The Natural History of Religion, p. 435 — p. 513. 

Additional Essays, -p. 517 — p. 577. 

As the volume and tlie page of the volume are given in 
my references, it will be easy, by the help of this table, to 
learn where to look for any passage cited, in differently ar- 
ranged editions. 



PART 11. 

HUME'S PHILOSOPHY. 
CHAPTER I. 

THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Kant lias said that tlie business of philosophy is to an- 
swer three questions : AYhat can I know ? What ought I 
to do ? and For what may I hope ? But it is pretty plain 
that these three resolve themselves, in the long run, into 
the first. For rational expectation and moral action are 
alike based upon beliefs ; and a belief is void of justifi- 
cation unless its subject-matter lies within the boundaries 
of possible knowledge, and unless its evidence satisfies 
the conditions which experience imposes as the guarantee 
of credibility. 

Fundamentally, then, philosophy is the answer to the 
question, What can I know? and it is by applying itself 
to this problem, that philosophy is properly distinguished 
as a special department of scientific research. What is 
commonly called science, whether mathematical, physical, 
or biological, consists of the answers which mankind 



CHAP. I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 41 

have been able to give to the inquiry, What do I know ? 
They furnish us with the results of the mental opera- 
tions which constitute thinking ; while philosophy, in the 
stricter sense of the term, inquires into the foundation 
of the first principles which those operations assume or 
imply. 

But though, by reason of the special purpose of phi- 
losophy, its distinctness from other branches of scientific 
investigation may be properly vindicated, it is easy to 
see that, from the nature of its subject-matter, it is in- 
timately and, indeed, inseparably connected with one 
branch of science. For it is obviously impossible to 
answer the question. What can we know ? unless, in the 
first place, there is a clear understanding as to what is 
meant by knowledge ; and, having settled this point, the 
next step is to inquire how we come by that which we 
allow to be knowledge ; for, upon the reply, turns the 
answer to the further question, whether, from the nature 
of the case, there are limits to the knowable or not. 
While, finally, inasmuch as What can I know? not only 
refers to knowledge of the past or of the present, but to 
the confident expectation which we call knowledge of the 
future ; it is necessary to ask, further, what justification 
can be alleged for trusting to the guidance of our expec- 
tations in practical conduct. 

It surely needs no argumentation to show, that the first 
problem cannot be approached without the examination 
of the contents of the mind ; and the determination of 
how much of these contents may be called knowledge. 
Nor can the second problem be dealt with in any other 
fashion; for it is only by the observation of the growth 
of knowledge that we can rationally hope to discover how 
knowledge grows. But the solution of the third problem 



48 HUME. [chap. 

simply involves the discussion of the data obtained by the 
investigation of the foregoing two. 

Thus, in order to answer three out of the four subordi- 
nate questions into which What can I know? breaks up, 
we must have recourse to that investigation of mental 
phenomena, the results of which are embodied in the sci- 
ence of psychology. 

Psychology is a part of the science of life or biology, 
which differs from the other branches of that science, 
merely in so far as it deals with the psychical, instead of 
the physical, phenomena of life. 

As there is an anatomy of the body, so there is an anat-^ 
omy of the mind ; the psychologist dissects mental phe- 
nomena into elementary states of consciousness, as the 
anatomist resolves limbs into tissues, and tissues into cells. 
The one traces the development of complex organs from 
simple rudiments ; the other follows the building up of 
complex conceptions out of simpler constituents of 
thought. As the physiologist inquires into the way in 
which the so-called " functions " of the body are perform- 
ed, so the psychologist studies the so-called ** faculties " 
of the mind. Even a cursory attention to the ways and 
works of the lower animals suggests a comparative anat- 
omy and physiology of the mind ; and the doctrine of ev- 
olution presses for application as much in the one field as 
in the other. 

But there is more than a parallel, there is a close and 
intimate connexion between psychology and physiology. 
No one doubts that, at any rate, some mental states are 
dependent for their existence on the performance of the 
functions of particular bodily organs. There is no seeing 
without eyes, and no hearing without ears. If the origin 
of the contents of the mind is truly a philosophical prob- 



l] , THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 49 

lem, then the philosopher who attempts to deal with that 
problem, without acquainting himself with the physiol- 
ogy of sensation, has no more intelligent conception of 
his business than the physiologist, who thinks he can dis- 
cuss locomotion, without an acquaintance with the prin- 
ciples of mechanics ; or respiration, without some tincture 
of chemistry. 

On whatever ground we term physiology, science, psy- 
chology is entitled to the same appellation ; and the' 
method of investigation which elucidates the true rela- 
tions of the one set of phenomena will discover those of 
the other. Hence, as philosophy is, in great measure, the 
exponent of the logical consequences of certain data es- 
tablished by psychology ; and as psychology itself differs 
from physical science only in the nature of its subject- 
matter, and not in its method of investigation, it would 
seem to be an obvious conclusion, that philosophers are 
likely to be successful in their inquiries, in proportion as 
they are familiar with the application of scientific method 
to less abstruse subjects ; just as it seems to require no 
elaborate demonstration that an astronomer, who wishes to 
comprehend the solar system, would do well to acquire a 
preliminary acquaintance with the elements of physics. 
And it is accordant with this presumption, that the men 
who have made the most important positive additions to 
philosophy, such as Descartes, Spinoza, and Kant, not to 
mention more recent examples, have been deeply imbued 
with the spirit of physical science ; and, in some cases, 
such as those of Descartes and Kant, have been largely 
acquainted with its details. On the other hand, the 
founder of Positivism no less admirably illustrates the 
connexion of scientific incapacity with philosophical in- 
coniDetence. In truth, the laboratory is the fore-court of 



50 HUME. [chap. 

the temple of philosophy ; and whoso has not offered sac- 
rifices and undergone purification there, has little chance 
of admission into the sanctuary. 

Obvious as these considerations may appear to be, it 
would be wrong to ignore the fact that their force is by 
no means universally admitted. On the contrary, the 
necessity for a proper psychological and physiological 
training to the student of philosophy is denied, on the 
one hand, by the " pure metaphysicians," who attempt to 
base the theory of knowing upon supposed necessary and 
universal truths, and assert that scientific observation is 
impossible unless such truths are already known or im- 
plied : which, to those who are not ^^ pure metaphysi- 
cians,'' seems very much as if one should say that the fall 
of a stone cannot be observed, unless the law of gravita- 
tion is already in the mind of the observer. 

On the other hand, the Positivists, so far as they accept 
the teachings of their master, roundly assert, at any rate 
in words, that observation of the mind is a thing inherent- 
ly impossible in itself, and that psychology is a chimera — 
a phantasm generated by the fermentation of the dregs of 
theology. Nevertheless, if M. Comte had been asked what 
he meant by ^' physiologic cerebrale," except that which 
other people call " psychology ;" and how he knew any- 
thing about the functions of the brain, except by that 
very " observation interieure," which he declares to be an 
absurdity — it seems probable that he would have found it 
hard to escape the admission that, in vilipending psychol- 
ogy, he had been propounding solemn nonsense. 

It is assuredly one of Hume's greatest merits that he 

clearly recognised the fact that philosophy is based upon 

,^ psychology; and that the inquiry into the contents and 

the operations of the mind must be conducted upon the 



I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 51 

same principles as a physical investigation, if what he calls 
the ^^ moral philosopher" would attain results of as firm 
and definite a character as those which reward the " natu- 
ral philosopher." ^ The title of his first work, a '^Treatise 
of Human Nature^ being an Attempt to introduce the Ex- 
perimental raethod of Reasoning into Moral Subjects ^^'' 
sufficiently indicates the point of view from which Hume 
regarded philosophical problems ; and he tells us in the 
preface, that his object has been to promote the construc- 
tion of a *' science of man." 

" 'Tis evident that all the sciences have a relation, greater 
or less, to human nature ; and that, however wide any of 
them may seem to run from it, they still return back by one 
passage or another. Even Mathematics^ Natural Philosophy^ 
and Natural Beligion are in some measure dependent on the 
science of Man; since they lie under the cognizance of men, 
and are judged of by their powers and qualities. 'Tis im- 
possible to tell what changes and improvements we might 
make in these sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with 
the extent and force of human understanding, and could ex- 
plain the nature of the ideas we employ and of the opera- 
tions we perform in our reasonings. ... To me it seems evi- 
dent that the essence of mind being equally unknown to us 
with that of external bodies, it must be equally impossible 
to form any notion of its powers and qualities otherwise than 
from careful and exact experiments, and the observation of 
those particular effects which result from its different cir- 

^ In a letter to Hutcheson (September lYth, I'ZSO) Hume remarks : 
— "There are different ways of examining the mind as well as the 
body. One may consider it either as an anatomist or as a painter: 
either to discover its most secret springs and principles, or to de- 
scribe the grace and beauty of its actions ;" and he proceeds to jus- 
tify his own mode of looking at the moral sentiments from the anat- 
omist's point of view. 
3^ 



52 IIUME. [chap. 

cumstances and situations. And though we must endeavour 
to render all our principles as universal as possible, by trac- 
ing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining all ef- 
fects from the simplest and fewest causes, ^tis still certain we 
cannot go beyond experience ; and any hypothesis that pre- 
tends to discover the ultimate original qualities of human 
nature, ought at first to be rejected as presumptuous and 
chimerical. . . . 

" But if this impossibility of explaining ultimate princi- 
ples should be esteemed a defect in the science of man, I 
will venture to affirm, that it is a defect common to it with 
all the sciences, and all the arts, in which we can employ 
ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in the 
schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the 
meanest artisans. None of them can go beyond experience, 
or establish any principles which are not founded on that 
authority. Moral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar dis- 
advantage, which is not found in natural, that in collecting 
its experiments, it cannot make tliem purposely, with pre- 
meditation, and after such a manner as to satisfy itself con- 
cerning every particular difficulty which may arise. When 
I am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another 
in any situation, I need only put them in that situation, and 
observe what results from it. But should I endeavour to 
clear up in the same manner any ^ doubt in moral philoso- 
phy, by placing myself in the same case with that which I 
consider, 'tis evident this reflection and premeditation would 
so disturb the operation of my natural principles, as must 
render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the 
phenomenon. We must, therefore, glean up our experiments 
in this science from a cautious observation of human Jife, 
and take them as they appear in the common course of the 

^ The manner in which Hume constantly refers *to the results of 
the observation of the contents and the processes of his own mind 
clearly shows that he has here inadvertently overstated the case. 



I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OE PHILOSOPHY. 5S 

world, bj men's behaviour in company, in affairs, and in 
their pleasures. Where experiments of this kind are judi- 
ciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish on 
them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and 
will be much superior in utility, to any other of human com- 
prehension." — (I. pp. 7 — 11.) 

All science starts with hypotheses — in other words, 
with assumptions that are unproved, while they may be, 
and often are, erroneous ; but which are better than noth- 
ing to the seeker after order in the maze of phenomena. . 
And the historical progress of every science depends on 
the criticism of hypotheses — on the gradual stripping off, 
that is, of their untrue or superfluous parts — until there 
remains only that exact verbal expression of as much as 
we know of the fact, and no more, which constitutes a 
perfect scientific theory. 

Philosophy has followed the same course aG other 
branches of scientific investigation. The memorable ser- 
vice rendered to the cause of sound thinking by Descartes 
consisted in this : that he laid the foundation of modern 
philosophical criticism by his inquiry into the nature of 
certainty. It is a clear result of the investigation started 
by Descartes, that there is one thing of which no doubt 
can be entertained, for he who should pretend to doubt it 
would thereby prove its existence ; and that is the mo- ; ' 
mentary consciousness we call a present thought or feel- 
ing; that is safe, even if all other kinds of certainty are . 
merely more or less probable inferences. Berkeley and \ 
Locke, each in his way, applied philosophical criticism in 
other directions ; but they always, at any rate professed- 
ly, followed the Cartesian ^maxim of admitting no proposi- 
tions to be true but such as are clear, distinct, and evident, 
even while their arguments stripped off many a layer of 





54 HUME. [chap. 

hypothetical assumption which their great predecessor had 
left untouched. No one has more clearly stated the aims 
of the critical philosopher than Locke, in a passage of the 
famous Essay concerning Human Understanding^ which, 
perhaps, I ought to assume to be well known to all Eng- 
lish readers, but which so probably is unknown to this 
full-crammed and much-examined generation that I vent- 
ure to cite it : * 

" If by this inquiry into the nature of the understanding I 
can discover the powers thereof, how far they reach, to what 
things they are in any degree proportionate, and where they 
fail us, I suppose it may be of use to prevail with the busy 
mind of man to be more cautious in meddling with things 
exceeding its comprehension : to stop when it is at the ut- 
most extent of its tether; and to sit down in quiet ignorance 
of those things which, upon examination, are proved to be 
beyond the reach of our capacities. We should not then, 
perhaps, be so forward, out of an affectation of universal 
knowledge, to raise questions and perplex ourselves and oth- 
ers with disputes about things to which our understandings 
are not suited, and of which we cannot frame in our minds 
any clear and distinct perception, or whereof (as it has, per- 
haps, too often happened) we have not any notion at all. . . . 
Men may find matter sufficient to busy their heads and em- 
23loy their hands with variety, delight, and satisfaction, if 
they will not boldly quarrel with their own constitution and 
throw away the blessings theil* hands are filled with because 
they are not big enough to grasp everything. We shall not 
have much reason to complain of the narrowness of our 
minds, if we will but emjoloy them about what may be of use 
to us : for of that they are very capable : and it will be an 
unpardonable, as well as a childish peevishness, if we under- 
value the advantages of our knowledge, and neglect to im- 
prove it to the ends for wdiich it was given us, because there 
are some thino^s that are set out of the reach of it. It will 



I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 55 

be no excuse to an idle and untoward servant who would 
not attend to liis business by candlelight, to plead that he 
had not broad sunshine. The candle that is set up in us 
shines bright enough for all our purposes. . . . Our business 
here is not to know all things, but those which concern our 
conduct." ^ 

Hume develops the same fundamental conception in a 
somewhat different way, and with a more definite indica- 
tion of the practical benefits which may be expected from 
a critical philosophy. The first and second parts of the 
twelfth section of the Inquiry are devoted to a condem- 
nation of excessive scepticism, or Pyrrhonism, with which 
Hume couples a caricature of the Cartesian doubt ; but, in 
the third part, a certain " mitigated scepticism " is recom- 
mended and adopted, under the title of " academical phi- 
losophy." After pointing out that a knowledge of the 
infirmities of the human understanding, even in its most 
perfect state, and when most accurate and cautious in its 
determinations, is the best check upon the tendency to 
dogmatism, Hume continues : — 

"Another species oi mitigated scepticism, which may be of 
advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural result 
of the Pyrrhonian doubts and scruples, is the limitation of 
our inquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to the nar- 
row capacity of human understanding. The imagination of 
man is naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is remote 
and extraordinary, and running, without control, into the 
most distant parts of space and time in order to avoid the 
objects which custom has .rendered too familiar to it. A 
correct judgment observes a contrary method, and, avoiding 
all distant and high inquiries, confines itself to common life, 

^ Locke, An Essay concerning Human Understanding^ Book I. chap, 
i. §§ 4, 5, 6. 



56 HUME. [chap. 

and to sucli subjects as fall under daily practice and experi- 
ence ; leaving the more sublime topics to the embellishment 
of poets and orators, or to the arts of priests and politicians. 
To bring us to so salutary a determination, nothing can be 
more serviceable than to be once thoroughly convinced of 
the force of the Pyrrhonian doubt, and of the impossibility 
that anything but the strong power of natural instinct could 
free us from it. Those who have a propensity to philosophy 
will still continue their researches ; because they reflect that, 
besides the immediate pleasure attending such an occupa- 
tion, philosophical decisions are nothing but the reflections 
of common life, methodised and corrected. But they will 
never be tempted to go beyond common life, so long as they 
consider the imperfection of those faculties which they em- 
ploy, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate operations. 
While we cannot give a satisfactory reason why we believe, 
after a thousand experiments, that a stone will fall or fire 
burn ; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning any deter- 
mination which we may form with regard to the origin of 
w^orlds and tlie situation of nature from and to eternity ?" 
—(IV. pp. 189— 90.) 

But further, it is the business of criticism not only to 
keep watch over the vagaries of philosophy, but to do the 
duty of police in the whole world of thought. Wherever 
it espies sophistry or superstition they are to be bidden to 
stand ; nay, they are to be followed to their very dens and 
there apprehended and exterminated, as Othello smothered 
Desdemona, " else she'll betray more men." 

Hume warms into eloquence as he sets forth the la- 
bours meet for the strength and the courao:e of the Her- 
cules of " mitigated scepticism." 

"Here, indeed, lies the justest and most plausible objection 
against a considerable part of metaphysics, that they are not 
properly a science, but arise either from the fruitless efforts 



I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY. 57 

of Imman vanity, whicli would penetrate into subjects utterly 
inaccessible to the understanding, or from the craft of popu- 
lar superstitions, which, being unable to defend themselves 
on fair ground, raise these entangling brambles to cover and 
protect their weakness. Chased from the open country, 
these robbers fly into the forest, and lie in wait to break in 
upon every unguarded avenue of the mind and overwhelm 
it with religious fears and prejudices. The stoutest antag- 
onist, if he remits his watch a moment, is oppressed ; and 
many, through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the 
enemies, and willingly receive them with reverence and sub- 
mission as their legal sovereigns. 

" But is this a sufficient reason why philosophers should 
desist from such researches and leave superstition still in 
possession of her retreat ? Is it not proper to draw an op- 
l^osite conclusion, and perceive the necessity of carrying the 
war into the most secret recesses of the enemy ? . . . . The 
only method of freeing learning at once from these abstruse 
questions is to inquire seriously into the nature of human 
understanding, and show, from an exact analysis of its powers 
and capacity, that it is by no means fitted for such remote 
and abstruse subjects. "We must submit to this fatigue, in 
order to live at ease ever after; and must cultivate true 
metaphysics with some care, in order to destroy the false 
and adulterated."— (I Y. pp. 10, 11.) 

Near a century and a lialf has elapsed since these brave 
words were shaped by David Hume's pen ; and the busi- 
ness of carrying the war into the enemy's camp has gone 
on but slowly. Like other campaigns, it long languished 
for want of a good base of operations. But since phys- 
ical science, in the course of the last fifty years, has 
brought to the front an inexhaustible supply of heavy 
artillery of a new pattern, warranted to drive solid bolts 
of fact through the thickest skulls, things are looking 
better ; though hardly more than the first faint flutterings 




58 HUME. [CHAP. 

of the dawn of the happy day, when superstition and false 
metaphysics shall be no more and reasonable folks may 
" live at ease," are as yet discernible by the enfants perdus 
of the outposts. 

If, in thus conceiving the object and the limitations of 
philosophy, Hume shows himself the spiritual child and 
continuator of the work of Locke, he appears no less 
plainly as the parent of Kant and as the protagonist of 
that more modern way of thinking, which has been called 
*' agnosticism," from its profession of an incapacity to 
discover the indispensable conditions of either positive 
or negative knowledge, in many propositions, respecting 
which not only the vulgar, but philosophers of the more 
sanguine sort, revel in the luxury of unqualified assurance. 

The aim of the Kritik der reinen Vernunft is essentially 
the same as that of the Treatise of Human Nature, by 
which, indeed, Kant was led to develop that " critical 
philosophy " wdth which his name and fame are indissolu- 
bly bound np : and, if the details of Kant's criticism diifer 
from those of Hume, they coincide with them in their 
main result, which is the limitation of all knowledge of 
reality to the world of phenomena revealed to us by 
experience. 

The philosopher of Konigsberg epitomises the philos- 
opher of Ninewells when he thus sums up the uses of 
philosophy : — 

**' The greatest and perhaps the sole use of all philosophy 
of pure reason is, after all, merely negative, since it serves, 
not as an organon for the enlargement [of knowledge], but 
as a discipline for its delimitation ; and instead of discover- 
ing truth, has only the modest merit of preventing error." ^ 

^ Kritik der reinen Vermin ft Ed. Hartenstein, p. 25j@f 

..^^^ 



II.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 59 



CHAPTER II. 

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 

In tlie language of common life, the " mind " is spoken 
of as an entity, independent of the body, though resident 
in and closely connected with it, and endowed with nu- 
merous *' faculties," such as sensibility, understanding, 
memory, volition, which stand in the same relation to the 
mind as the organs do to the body, and perform the func- 
tions of feeling, reasoning, remembering, and willing. Of 
these functions, some, such as sensation, are supposed to 
be merely passive — that is, they are called into existence 
by impressions made upon the sensitive faculty by a 
material world of real objects, of which our sensations are 
supposed to give us pictures ; others, such as the memory 
and the reasoning faculty, are considered to be partly pas- 
sive and partly active ; while volition is held to be poten- 
tially, if not always actually, a spontaneous activity. 

The popular classification and terminology of the phe- 
nomena of consciousness, however, are by no means the 
first crude conceptions suggested by common sense, but 
rather a legacy, and, in many respects, a sufficiently dam- 
nosa hcereditas, of ancient philosophy, more or less leav- 
ened by theology ; which has incorporated itself with the 
common thought of later times, as the vices of the aris- 
tocracy of one age become those of the mob in the next. 



60 HUME. [chap. 

Very little attention to what passes in the mind is suffi- 
cient to show that these conceptions involve assumptions 
of an extremely hypothetical character. And the first 
business of the student of psychology is to get rid of such 
prepossessions ; to form conceptions of mental phenome- 
na as they are given us by observation, without any hypo- 
thetical admixture, or with only so much as is definitely 
recognised and held subject to confirmation or otherwise ; 
to classify these phenomena according to their clearly 
recognisable characters ; and to adopt a nomenclature 
which suggests nothing beyond the results of observation. 
Thus chastened, observation of the mind makes us ac- 
quainted with nothing but certain events, facts, or phe- 
nomena (whichever name be preferred) which pass over 
the inward field of view in rapid and, as it may appear on 
careless inspection, in disorderly succession, like the shift- 
ing patterns of a kaleidoscope. To all these mental phe- 
nomena, or states of our consciousness,^ Descartes gave 
the name of "" thoughts/' ^ while Locke and Berkeley 
termed them *' ideas." Hume, regarding this as an improp- 
er use of the word " idea," for which he proposes another 
employment, gives the general name of " perceptions " to 
all states of consciousness. Thus, whatever other signifi- 

1 " Consciousnesses '* would be a better name, but is awkward. I 
have elsewhere proposed psychoses as a substantive name for mental 
phenomena. 

2 As this has been denied, it may be as well to give Deseartes's 
words: "Par le mot de penser, j'entends tout ce que se fait dans 
nous de telle sorte que nous I'apercevons immediatement par nous- 
memes : c'est pourquoi non - seulement entendre, vouloir, imaginer, 
mais aussi sentir, c'est le meme chose ici que penser." — Principes de 
Philosophie. Ed. Cousin. 57. 

*' Toutes les proprietes que nous trouvons en la chose qui pense 
ne sont que des fa9ons differentes de penser." — Ibid. 96. 



n.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 61 

cation we may see reason to attach to the word ^' mind," 
it is certain that it is a name which is employed to denote 
a series of perceptions ; just as the word " tune," what- 
ever else it may mean, denotes, in the first place, a succes- 
sion of musical notes. Hume, indeed, goes further than 
others when he says that — 

" What we call a mind is nothing but a heap or collection 
of difierent perceptions, united together by certain relations, 
and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed with a perfect 
simplicity and identity." — (I. p. 268.) 

"With this " nothing but," however, he obviously falls into 
the primal and perennial error of philosophical specula- 
tors — dogmatising from negative arguments. He may be 
right or wrong ; but the most he, or anybody else, can 
prove in favour of his conclusion is, that we know nothing 
more of the mind than that it is a series of perceptions. 
Whether there is something in the mind that lies beyond 
the reach of observation ; or whether perceptions them- 
selves are the products of something which can be ob- 
served and which is not mind; are questions which can 
in nowise be settled by direct observation. Elsewhere, 
the objectionable hypothetical element of the definition 
of mind is less prominent : — 

'' The true idea of the human mind is to consider it as a 
system of different perceptions, or different existences, which 
are linked together by the relation of cause and effect, and 
mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other. 
... In this respect I cannot compare the soul more properly 
to anything than a republic or commonwealth, in which the 
several members are united by the recijorocal ties of govern- 
ment and subordination, and give rise to other persons who 
propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of its 
parts."— (I. p. 331.) 



62 HUME. [chap. 

But, leaving the question of the proper definition of 
mind open for the present, it is further a matter of di- 
rect observation that, when we take a general survey of 
all our perceptions or states of consciousness, they natu- 
rally fall into sundry groups or classes. Of these classes, 
two are distinguished by Hume as of primary importance. 
All "perceptions," he says, are either ''' Impressions'''' or 
''''Ideas,'''' 

Under "impressions" he includes " all our more lively 
perceptions, when wo hear, see, feel, love, or will ;" in oth- 
er words, "all our sensations, passions, and emotions, as 
they make their first appearance in the soul." — (I. p. 15.) 

" Ideas," on the other hand, are the faint images of 
impressions in thinking and reasoning, or of antecedent 
ideas. 

Both impressions and ideas may be either simple^ when 
they are incapable of further analysis, or complex, when 
they may be resolved into simpler constituents. All sim- 
ple ideas are exact copies of impressions ; but, in complex 
ideas, the arrangement of simple constituents may be dif- 
ferent from that of the impressions of which those simple 
ideas are copies. 

Thus the colours red and blue and the odour of a rose 
are simple impressions; while the ideas of blue, of red, 
and of rose-odour are simple copies of these impressions. 
But a red rose gives us a complex impression, capable 
of resolution into the simple impressions of red colour, 
rose-scent, and numerous others ; and we may have a com- 
plex idea, which is an accurate, though faint, copy of this 
complex impression. Once in possession of the ideas 
of a red rose and of the colour blue, w^e may, in imagi- 
nation, substitute blue for red; and thus obtain a com- 
plex idea of a blue rose, which is not an actual copy of 



II.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 63 

any complex impression, thougli all its elements are such 
copies. 

Hume has been criticised for making the distinction 
of impressions and ideas to depend upon their relative 
strength or vivacity. Yet it would be hard to point out 
any other character by which the things signified can be 
distinguished. Any one who has paid attention to the 
curious subject of what are called " subjective sensations " 
will be familiar with examples of the extreme difficulty 
which sometimes attends the discrimination of ideas of 
sensation from impressions of sensation, when the ideas 
are very vivid or the impressions are faint. Who has not 
" fancied " he heard a noise ; or has not explained inatten- 
tion to a real sound by saying, " I thought it was nothing 
but my fancy ?" Even healthy persons are much more 
liable to both visual and auditory spectra — that is, ideas 
of vision and sound so vivid that they are taken for new 
impressions — than is commonly supposed ; and, in some 
diseased states, ideas of sensible objects may assume all 
the vividness of reality. 

If ideas are nothing but copies of impressions, arranged, 
either in the same order as that of the impressions from 
which they are derived, or in a different order, it follows 
that the ultimate analysis of the contents of the mind 
turns upon that of the impressions. According to Hume, 
these are of two kinds : either they are impressions of sen- 
sation, or they are impressions of reflection. The former 
are those afforded by the ^ve senses, together with pleas- 
ure and pain. The latter are the passions or the emotions 
(which Hume employs as equivalent terms). Thus the 
elementary states of consciousness, the raw^ materials of 
knowledge, so to speak, are either sensations or emotions ; 
and Avhatever we discover in the mind, beyond these ele- 



64 HUME. [chap. 

mentary states of consciousness, results from the combina- 
tions and the metamorphoses which they undergo. 

It is not a little strange that a thinker of Hume's capac- 
ity should have been satisfied with the results of a psy- 
chological analysis which regards some obvious compounds 
as elements, while it omits altogether a most important 
class of elementary states. 

With respect to the former point, Spinoza's masterly 
examination of the Passions in the third part of the 
JEthics should have been known to llume.^ But, if he 
had been acquainted with that wonderful piece of psy- 
chological anatomy, he would have learned that the emo- 
tions and passions are all complex states, arising from the 
close association of ideas of pleasure or pain with other 
ideas ; and, indeed, without going to Spinoza, his own 
acute discussion of the passions leads to the same result,^ 
and is wholly inconsistent with his classification of those 
mental states among the primary uncompounded materials 
of consciousness. 

^ On the whole, it is pleasant to find satisfactory evidence that 
Hume knew nothing of the works of Spinoza; for the invariably 
abusive manner in which he refers to that type of the philosophic 
hero is only to be excused, if it is to be excused, by sheer ignorance 
of his life and work. 

2 For example, in discussing pride and humility, Hume says : — 
^'According as our idea of ourselves is more or less advantageous, 
we feel either of these opposite affections, and are elated by pride 
or dejected with humility ; . . . when self enters not into the con- 
sideration there is no room either for pride or humility." That is, 
pride is pleasure, and humility is pain, associated with certain con- 
ceptions of one's self; or, as Spinoza puts it: — "Superbia est de 
se prge amore sui plus justo sentire " (" amor " being " laetitia con- 
comitante idea cauStC externoe ") ; and " Humilitas est tristitia orta 
ex eo quod homo suam impotentiam sive imbecillitatem contem* 
platur." 



II.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 65 

If "Hume's "impressions of reflection" are excluded 
from among the primary elements of consciousness, noth- 
ing is left but the impressions afforded by the ^ve senses, 
with pleasure and pain. Putting aside the muscular sense, 
which had not come into view in Hume's time, the ques- 
tions arise whether these are all the simple undecomposa- 
ble materials of thought ? or whether others exist of which 
Hume takes no cognizance. 

Kant answered the latter question in the affirmative, in 
the Kritik der reinen Vernunft, and thereby made one of 
the greatest advances ever effected in philosophy ; though 
it must be confessed that the German philosopher's expo- 
sition of his views is so perplexed in style, so burdened 
with the weight of a cumbrous and uncouth scholasticism, 
that it is easy to confound the unessential parts of his sys- 
tem with those which are of profound importance. His 
baggage train is bigger than his army, and the student 
who attacks him is too often led to suspect he has won 
a position when he has only captured a mob of useless 
camp-followers. 

In his Princiijles of Psychology^ Mr. Herbert Spencer 
appears to me to have brought out the essential truth 
which underlies Kant's doctrine in a far clearer manner 
than any one else ; but, for the purpose of the present 
summary view of Hume's philosophy, it must suffice if I 
state the matter in my own way, giving the broad out- 
lines, without enterino' into the details of a large and diffi- 
cult discussion. 

When a red light flashes across the field of vision, there 
arises in the mind an " impression of sensation " — which 
we call red. It appears to me that this sensation, red, is a 
something which may exist altogether independently of 
any other impression, or idea, as an individual existence. 



66 HUME. [chap. 

It is perfectly conceivable that a sentient being should 
have no sense but vision, and that he should have spent 
his existence in absolute darkness, with the exception of 
one solitary flash of red light. That momentary illumina- 
tion w^ould suffice to give him the impression under con- 
sideration ; and the whole content of his consciousness 
might be that impression ; and, if he were endowed with 
memory, its idea. • 

Such being the state of affairs, suppose a second flash of 
red light to follow the first. If there were no memory of 
the latter, the state of the mind on the second occasion 
would simply be a repetition of that which occurred be- 
fore. There would be merely another impression. 

But suppose memory to exist, and that an idea of the 
first impression is generated ; then, if the supposed sen- 
tient being were like ourselves, there might arise in his 
mind two altogether new impressions. The one is the 
feeling of the succession of the two impressions, the other 
is the feeling of their similarity/. 

Yet a third case is conceivable. Suppose two flashes 
of red light to occur together, then a third feeling might 
arise which is neither succession nor similarity, but that 
which we call co-existence. 

These feelings, or their contraries, are the foundation 
of everything that we call a relation. They are no more 
capable of being described than sensations are ; and, as 
it appears to me, they are as little susceptible of analysis 
into simpler elements. Like simple tastes and smells,, or 
feelings of pleasure and pain, they are ultimate irresolv- 
able facts of conscious experience ; and, if we follow the 
principle of Hume's nomenclature, they must be called 
impressions of relation. But it must be remembered that 
they differ from the other impressions, in requiring the 



II.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIXD. 61 

pre-exist ence of at least two of the latter. Though devoid 
of the slightest resemblance to the other impressions, they 
are, in a manner, generated by them. In fact, we may re- 
gard them as a kind of impressions of impressions ; or as 
the sensations of an inner sense, which takes cognizance 
of the materials furnished to it by the outer senses. 

Hume failed as completely as his predecessors had done 
to recognize the elementary character of impressions of 
relation ; and, when he discusses relations, he falls into a 
chaos of confusion and self-contradiction. 

In the Treatise, for example (Book L, § iv.), resem- 
blance, contiguity in time and space, and cause and effect, 
are said to be the " uniting principles among ideas," ",the 
bond of union " or " associating quality by which one idea 
naturally introduces another." Hume affirms that — 

" These qualities produce au association among ideas, and 
upon the appearance of one idea naturally introduce anoth- 
er." They are '^ the principles of union or cohesion among 
our simple ideas, and, in the imagination, supply the place of 
that inseparable connection by w^hich they are united in our 
memory. Here is a kind of attraction, which, in the mental 
world, will be found to have as extraordinarv effects as in 
the natural, and to show itself in as many and as various 
forms. Its effects are everywhere conspicuous ; but as to its 
causes they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved into 
original qualities of human natur?, which I pretend not to 
explain."— (I. p. 29.) 

And at the end of this sejtion Hume goes on to say — 

^'Amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, 
there are none more remarkable than those complex ideas 
which are the common subjects of our thought and reason- 
ing, and generally arise from some principle of union among 
4 



68 HUME. [chap. 

our simple ideas. These complex ideas may be resolved into 

relations^ modes^ and substances,^^ — {IMd.) 



In the next section, which is devoted to Relations^ they 
are spoken of as qualities "by which two ideas are connect- 
ed together in the imagination," or " which make objects 
admit of comparison," and seven kinds of relation are 
enumerated, namely, resemblance, identity, space and ti^ne, 
quantity or number, degrees of quality, contrai^iety, and 
cause and effect. 

To the reader of Hume, whose conceptions are usually 
so clear, definite, and consistent, it is as unsatisfactory as 
it is surprising to meet with so much questionable and ob- 
scure phraseology in a small space. One and the same 
thing, for example, resemblance, is first called a " quality 
of an idea," and secondly, a '' complex idea." Surely it 
cannot be both. Ideas which have the qualities of "re- 
semblance, contiguity, and cause and effect," are said to 
"attract one another" (save the mark!), and so become 
associated; though, in a subsequent part of the Treatise, 
Hume's great effort is to prove that the relation of cause 
and effect is a particular case of the process of association ; 
that is to say, is a result of the process of which it is sup- 
posed to be the cause. Moreover, since, as Hume is never 
weary of reminding his readers, there is nothing in ideas 
save copies of impressions, the qualities of resemblance, 
contiguity, and so on, in the idea, must have existed in 
the impression of which that idea is a copy ; and therefore 
they must be either sensations or emotions — from both of 
which classes they are excluded. 

In fact, in one place, Hume himself has an insight into 
the real nature of relations. Speaking of equality, in the 
sense of a relation of quantity, he says — 



II.] THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND. 69 

'•' Since equality is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, a 
property in the figures themselves, but arises merely from tlie 
comparison which the mind makes between them." — (I. p. 70.) 

That is to say, when two impressions of equal figures 
are present, there arises in the mind a tertium quid, which 
is the perception of equality. On his own principles, 
Hume should therefore have placed this '^ perception " 
among the ideas of reflection. However, as we have seen, 
he expressly excludes everything but the emotions and the 
passions from this group. 

It is necessary, therefore, to amend Hume's primary 
"geography of the mind" by the excision of one terri- 
tory and the addition of another; and the elementary 
states of consciousness will stand thus : — 

A. Impressions. 

A. Sensations of 

a. Smell. 

b. Taste. 

c. Hearing. 

d. Sight. 
e. Touch. 

/. Resistance (the muscular sense). 

B. Pleasure and Pain. 
c. Relations. 

a. Co-existence. 

b. Succession. 

c. Similarity and dissimilarity. 

B. Ideas. 

Copies, or reproductions in memory, of the foregoing. 

And now the question arises, whether any, and if so, 
what, portion of these contents of the mind are to be 
termed " knowledge." 



10 . HUME. [chap. 

According to Locke, " Knowledge is the perception of 
the agreement or disagreement of two ideas ^" and Hume, 
though he does not say so in so many words, tacitly ac- 
cepts the definition. It follows that neither simple sen- 
sation, nor simple emotion, constitutes knowledge ; but 
that, w4ien impressions of relation are added to these im- 
pressions, or their ideas, knowledge arises; and that all 
knowledge is the knowledge of likenesses and unlike- 
nesses, co-existences and successions. 

It really matters very little in what sense terms are 
used, so long as the same meaning is always rigidly at- 
tached to them ; and, therefore, it is hardly worth while to 
quarrel with this generally accepted, though very arbitrary, 
limitation of the signification of *' knowledge." But, on 
the face of the matter, it is not obvious why the impres- 
sion we call a relation should have a better claim to the 
title of knowledge than that which we call a sensation or 
an emotion ; and the restriction has this unfortunate re- 
sult, that it excludes all the most intense states of con- 
sciousness from any claim to the title of '^ knowledge." 

For example, on this view, pain, so violent and absorb- 
ing as to exclude all other forms of consciousness, is not 
knowledge ; but becomes a part of knowledge the mo- 
ment we think of it in relation to another pain, or to 
some other mental phenomenon. Surely this is somewhat 
inconvenient, for there is only a verbal difference between 
having a sensation and knowing one has it: they are sim- 
ply two phrases for the same mental state. 

But the " pure metaphysicians " make great capital out 
of the ambiguity. For, starting with the assumption that 
all knowledge is the perception of relations, and finding 
themselves, like mere common-sense folks, very much dis- 
posed to call sensation knowledge, they at once gratify 



II.] THE CONTENTS OE THE MIND. n 

that disposition and save their consistency, by declaring 
that even the simplest act of sensation contains two terms 
and a relation — the sensitive subject, the sensigenous ob- 
ject, and that masterful entity, the Ego. From which 
great triad, as from a gnostic Trinity, emanates an end- 
less procession of other logical shadows and all the Fata 
Morgana of philosophical dreamland. 



'72 HUME. [chap. 



CHAPTER IIL 

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 

Admitting that the sensations, the feelings of pleasure 
and pain, and those of relation, are the primary irresolva- 
ble states of consciousness, two further lines of investiga- 
tion present themselves. The one leads us to seek the 
origin of these " impressions ;" the other, to inquire into 
the nature of the steps by which they become metamor- 
phosed into those compound states of consciousness which 
so largely enter into our ordinary trains of thought. 

With respect to the origin of impressions of sensation, 
Hume is not quite consistent with himself. In one place 
(I. p. 117) he says that it is impossible to decide ^^ wheth- 
er they arise immediately from the object, or are produced 
by the creative power of the mind, or are derived from 
the Author of our being," thereby implying that realism 
and idealism are equally probable hypotheses. But, in 
fact, after the demonstration by Descartes, that the im- 
mediate antecedents of sensations are changes in the ner- 
vous system, with which our feelings have no sort of re- 
semblance, the hypothesis that sensations " arise immedi- 
ately from the object " was out of court ; and that Hume 
fully admitted the Cartesian doctrine is apparent when he 
says (I. p. 272): — 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. V3 

" All oar perceptions are dependent on our organs and the 
disposition of our nerves and animal spirits." 

And again, tliougli in relation to another question, he ob- 
serves : — 

'' There are three different kinds of impressions conveyed 
by the senses. The first are those of the figure, bulk, motion, 
and solidity of bodies. The second those of colours, tastes, 
smells, sounds, heat, and cold. The third are the pains and 
pleasures that arise from the application of objects to our 
bodies, as by the cutting of our flesh with steel and such 
like. Both philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of 
these to have a distinct continued existence. The vulgar 
only regard the second as on the same footing. Both phi- 
losophers and the vulgar again esteem the third to be mere- 
ly perceptions, and consequently interrupted and dependent 
beings. 

" Now 'tis evident that, whatever may be our philosopli- 
ical opinion, colour, sounds, heat, and cold, as far as appears 
to the senses, exist after the same manner with motion and 
solidity ; and that the difference we make between them, in 
this respect, arises not from the mere perception. So strong 
is the prejudice for the distinct continued existence of the 
former qualities, that w^hen the contrary opinion is advanced 
by modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost re- 
fute it from their reason and experience, and that their very 
senses contradict this philosophy. 'Tis also evident that 
colours, sounds, &c., are originally on the same footing with 
the pain that arises from steel, and pleasure that proceeds 
from a fire ; and that the difference betwixt them is founded 
neither on perception nor reason, but on the imagination. 
For as they are confessed to be, both of them, nothing but 
perceptions arising from the particular configurations and 
motions of the parts of body, wherein possibly can their dif- 
ference consist? Upon the whole, then, we may conclude 



H HUME. [CHAP. 

that, as far as the senses are judges, all perceptions are the 
same in the manner of their existence." — (I. p. 250, 251,) 

The last words of this passage are as much Berkeley's 
as Hume's. But, instead of following Berkeley in his de- 
ductions from the position thus laid down, Hume, as the 
preceding citation shows, fully adopted the conclusion to 
which all that we know of psychological physiology tends, 
that the origin of the elements of consciousness, no less 
than that of all its other states, is to be sought in bodily 
changes, the seat of which can only be placed in the brain. 
And, as Locke had already done with less effect, he states 
and refutes the arguments commonly brought against the 
possibility of a casual connexion between the modes of 
motion of the cerebral substance and states of conscious- 
ness, with great clearness : — 

" From these hypotheses concerning the substance and local 
conjunction of our perceptions we may pass to another, which 
is more intelligible than the former, and more important 
than the latter, viz., concerning the cause of our perceptions. 
Matter and motion, 'tis commonly said in the schools, how- 
ever varied, are still matter and motion, and produce only a 
difference in the position and situation of objects. Divide 
a body as often as you please, 'tis still body. Place it in 
any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation of 
parts. Move it in any manner, you still find motion or a 
change of relation. 'Tis absurd to imagine that motion in 
a circle, for instance, should be nothing but merely motion 
in a circle ; while motion in another direction, as in an el- 
lipse, should also be a passion or moral reflection ; that the 
shocking of two globular particles should become a sensa- 
tion of pain, and that the meeting of the triangular ones 
should afford a pleasure. Now as these different shocks and 
variations and mixtures are the only changes of which mat- 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 75 

ter is susceptible, and as these never aflford us any idea of 
thought or perception, 'tis concluded to be impossible that 
thought can ever be caused by matter. 

"Few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence 
of this argument; and yet nothing in the world is more easy 
than to refute it. We need only reflect upon what has been 
proved at large, that we are never sensible of any connexion 
between causes and effects, and that 'tis only by our expe- 
rience of their constant conjunction we can arrive at any 
knowledge of this relation. Now, as all objects which are 
not contrary are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as 
no real objects are contrary, I have inferred from these prin- 
ciples (Part III. § 15) that, to consider the matter a priori^ 
anything may produce anything, and that we shall never dis- 
cover a reason why any object may or may not be the cause 
of any other, however great, or however little, the resem- 
blance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the 
precedent reasoning concerning the cause of thought or per- 
ception. For though there appear no manner of connection 
betwixt motion and thought, the case is the same with all 
other causes and effects. Place one body of a pound weight 
on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight 
on the other end ; you will never find in these bodies any 
principle of motion dependent on their distance from the 
centre, more than of thought and perception. If you pre- 
tend, therefore, to prove, a priori, that such a position of bod- 
ies can never cause thought, because, turn it which way you 
will, it is nothing but a position of bodies : you must, by the 
same course of reasoning, conclude that it can never produce 
motion, since there is no more apparent connection in the one 
than in the other. But, as this latter conclusion is contrary 
to evident experience, and as 'tis possible we may have a like 
experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive 
a constant conjunction of thought and motion, you reason 
too hastily when, from the mere consideration of the ideas, 
you conclude that 'tis impossible motion can ever produce 
4* 



1 1 



76 HUME. [chap. 

thought, or a different pcTsition of parts give rise to a difler- 
ent passion or reflection. Nay, 'tis not only possible we may 
have such an experience, but 'tis certain we have it ; since 
every one may perceive that the different dispositions of his 
body change his thoughts and sentiments. And should it 
be said that this depends on the union of soul and body, I 
would answer, that we must separate the question concern- 
ing the substance of the mind from that concerning the 
cause of its thought; and that, confining ourselves to i]\Q 
latter question, we find, by the comparing their ideas, that 
■ thought and motion are different from each other, and by 
/ experience, that they are constantly united ; which, being all 
I the circumstances that enter into the idea of cause and ef- 
A feet, when applied to the operations of matter, we may cer- 

tainly conclude that motion may be, and aotually is, the 
cause of thought and perception." — (I. pp. 314 — 316.) 

The upshot of all this is, that the ^' collection of per- 
ceptions," which constitutes the mind, is really a system 
of effects, the causes of which are to be sought in antece- 
dent changes of the matter of the brain, just as the " col- 
lection of motions," which we call flying, is a system of 
effects, the causes of which are to be sought in the modes 
of motion of the matter of the muscles of the wino;s. 

Hume, however, treats of this important topic only in- 
cidentally. He seems to have had very little acquaintance 
even with such physiology as was current in his time. At 
least, the only passage of his works bearing on this sub- 
ject, with which I am acquainted, contains nothing but a 
very odd version of the physiological views of Descartes : — 

" When I received the relations of reseiriblance^ contiguity^ 
and causation^ as principles of union among ideas, without 
examining into their causes, 'twas more in prosecution of my 
first maxim, that we must in the end rest contented with 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 11 

experience, than for want of something specious and plausi- 
ble which I might have displayed on that subject. 'Twould 
have been easy to have made an imaginary dissection of the 
brain, and have shown why, upon our conception of any idea, 
the animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces and rouse 
up the other ideas that are related to it. But though I have 
neglected any advantage which I might have drawn from 
this topic in explaining the relations of ideas, I am afraid I 
must here have recourse to it, in order to account for the 
mistakes that arise from these relations. I shall therefore 
observe, that as the mind is endowed with the power of ex- 
citing any idea it pleases ; whenever it despatches the spir- 
its into that region of the brain in which the idea is placed ; 
these spirits always excite the idea, when they run precisely 
into the proper traces and rummage that cell which belongs 
to the idea. But as their motion is seldom direct, and natu- 
rally turns a little to the one side or to the other f for this 
reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous traces, 
present other related ideas, in lieu of that which the mind 
desired at first to survey. This change we are not always 
sensible of; but continuing still the same train of thought, 
make use of the related idea which is presented to us and 
employ it in our reasonings, as if it were the same with what 
we demanded. This is the cause of many mistakes and soph- 
isms in philosophy, as will naturally be imagined, and as it 
would be easy to show, if there was occasion." — (I. p. 88.) 

Perhaps it is as well for Hume's fame that the occasiorn 
for further physiological speculations of this sort did not 
arise. But, while admitting the crudity of his notions 
and the strangeness of the language in which they are 
couched, it must in justice be remembered, that what are 
now known as the elements of the physiology of the ner- 
vous system were hardly dreamed of in the first half of 
the eighteenth century ; and, as a further set-off to Hume's 
credit, it must be noted that he grasped the fundamental 



^S HUME. [chap. 

truth, that the key to the comprehension of mental oper- 
ations lies in the study of the molecular changes of the 
nervous apparatus by which they are originated. 

Surely no one who is cognisant of the facts of the case, 
nowadays, doubts that the roots of psychology lie in the 
physiology of the nervous system. What we call the op- 
erations of the mind are functions of the brain, and the 
materials of consciousness are products of cerebral activi- 
ty. Cabanis may have made use of crude and misleading 
phraseology when he said that the brain secretes thought 
as the liver secretes bile ; but the conception which that 
much -abused phrase embodies is, nevertheless, far more 
consistent with fact than the popular notion that the 
mind is a metaphysical entity seated in the head, but as 
independent of the brain as a telegraph operator is of his 
instrument. 

It is hardly necessary to point out that the doctrine 
just laid down is what is commonly called materialism. 
In fact, I am not sure that the adjective '^ crass,' ^ which 
appears to have a special charm for rhetorical sciolists, 
would not be applied to it. But it is, nevertheless, true 
that the doctrine contains nothino; inconsistent with the 
purest idealism. For, as Hume remarks (as indeed Des- 
cartes had observed long before) : — 

" 'Tis not our body we perceive when w^e regard our limbs 
and members, but certain impressions which enter by the 
senses; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence 
to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind 
as difficult to explain as that [the external existence of ob- 
jects] which we examine at present." — (I. p. 249.) 

Therefore, if we analyse the proposition that all mental 
phenomena are the effects or products of material phe- 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. Id 

nomena, all that it means amounts to this ; that whenever 
those states of consciousness which we call sensation, or 
emotion, or thought, come into existence, complete investi- 
gation will show good reason for the belief that they are 
preceded by those other phenomena of consciousness to 
which we give the names of matter and motion. All ma- 
terial changes appear, in the long run, to be modes of mo- 
tion ; but our knowledge of motion is nothing but that of 
a change in the place and order of our sensations ; just as 
our knowledge of matter is restricted to those feelings of 
which we assume it to be the cause. 

It has already been pointed out that Hume must have 
admitted, and in fact does admit, the possibility that the 
mind is a Leibnitzian monad, or a Fichtean world-gener- 
ating Ego, the universe of things being merely the pict- 
ure produced by the evolution of the phenomena of con- 
sciousness. For any demonstration that can be given to 
the contrary effect, the " collection of perceptions '' which 
makes up our consciousness may be an orderly phantas- 
magoria generated by the Ego, unfolding its successive 
scenes on the background of the abyss of nothingness ; as 
a firework, which is but cunningly arranged combustibles, 
grows from a spark into a coruscation, and from a corus- 
cation into figures, and words, and cascades of devouring 
fire, and then vanishes into the darkness of the night. 

On the other hand, it must no less readily be allowed 
that, for anything that can be proved to the contrary, 
there may be a real something which is the cause of all 
our impressions ; that sensations, though not likenesses, 
are symbols of that something ; and that the part of that 
something, which we call the nervous system, is an appa- 
ratus for supplying us with a sort of algebra of fact, based 
on those symbols. A brain may be the machinery by 



80 HUME. [chap. 

whicli the material universe becomes conscious of itself. 
But it is important to notice that, even if this conception 
of the universe and of the relation of consciousness to its 
other components should be true, we should, nevertheless, 
be still bound by the limits of thought, still unable to refute 
the arguments of pure idealism. The more completely the 
materialistic position is admitted, the easier it is to show 
that the idealistic position is unassailable, if the idealist 
confines himself within the limits of positive knowledge. 

Hume deals with the questions whether all our ideas 
are derived from experience, or whether, on the contrary, 
more or fewer of them are innate, which so much exer- 
cised the mind of Locke, after a somewhat summary fash- 
ion, in a note to the second section of the Inquiry : — 

^' It is probable that no more was meant by those who de- 
nied innate ideas, than that all ideas were copies of our im- 
pressions ; though it must be confessed that the terms whicli 
they employed were not chosen with such caution, nor so ex- 
actly defined, as to prevent all mistakes about their doctrine. 
For what is meant by innate? If innate be equivalent to 
natural, then all the perceptions and ideas of the mind must 
be allowed to be innate or natural, in whatever sense we take 
the latter word, whether in opposition to what is uncommon, 
artificial, or miraculous. If by innate be meant contempo- 
rary w^ith our birth, the dispute seems to be frivolous ; nor 
is it worth while to inquire at what time thinking begins, 
whether before, at, or after our birth. Again, the word idea 
seems to be commonly taken in a very loose sense by Locke 
and others, as standing for any of our perceptions, our sensa- 
tions and passions, as well as thoughts. Now in this sense I 
should desire to know what can be meant by asserting that 
self-love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion between the 
sexes is not innate ? 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 81 

" But admitting these terms, impressions and ideas^ in the 
sense above explained, and understanding by innate what 
is original or copied from no precedent perception, then we 
may assert that all our impressions are innate, and our ideas 
not innate." 

It would seem that Hume did not think it worth while 
to acquire a comprehension of the real points at issue in 
the controversy which he thus carelessly dismisses. 

Yet Descartes has defined what he means by innate 
ideas with so much precision, that misconception ought to 
have been impossible. He says that, when he speaks of 
an idea being *^ innate," he means that it exists potentially 
in the mind, before it is actually called into existence by 
whatever is its appropriate exciting cause. 

"I have never either thought or said," he w^rites, " that 
the mind has any need of innate ideas [idees naturelles'] 
which are anything distinct from its faculty of thinking. 
But it is true that observing that there are certain thoughts 
which arise neither from external objects nor from the deter- 
mination of my will, but only from my faculty of thinking ; 
in order to mark the difference between the ideas or the 
notions which are the forms of these thoughts, and to dis- 
tinguish them from the others, which may be called extra- 
neous or voluntary, I have called them innate. But I have 
used this term in the same sense as when we say that gener- 
osity is innate in certain families ; or that certain maladies, 
such as gout or gravel, are innate in others ; not that chil- 
dren born in these families are troubled with such diseases 
in their mother's womb, but because they are born with the 
disposition or the faculty of contracting them." ^ 

^ Remarques de Rene Descartes sur un certain placard nnprime 
aux Pays Bas vers la fin de Fannee, 164Y. — Descartes, (Euvres. Ed. 
Cousin, X. p. 'Tl. 



82 HUME. [chap. 

His troublesome disciple, Eegius, having asserted that 
all our ideas come from observation or tradition, Descartes 
remarks : — 

^' So thoroughly erroneous is this assertion, that whoever 
has a proper comprehension of the action of our senses, 
and understands precisely the nature of that which is trans- 
mitted by them to our thinking faculty, will rather affirm 
that no ideas of things, such as are formed in thought, are 
brought to us by the senses, so that there is nothing in our 
ideas which is other than innate in the mind {naturel a Ves* 
prit)^ or in the faculty of thinking, if only certain circum- 
stances are excepted, which belong only to experience. For 
example, it is experience alone which causes us to judge that 
such and such ideas, now present in our minds, are related 
to certain things which are external to us ; not in truth, that 
they have been sent into our mind by these things, such as 
they are, by the organs of the senses ; but because these or- 
gans have transmitted something which has occasioned the 
mind, in virtue of its innate power, to form them at this time 
rather than at another. . . . 

" Nothing passes from external objects to the soul except 
certain motions of matter (mouvemens corjoorels)^ but neither 
these motions, nor the figures which they produce, are con- 
ceived by us as they exist in the sensory organs, as I have 
fully explained in my 'Dioptrics;' whence it follows that 
even the ideas of motion and of figures are innate (naturelle- 
ment en nous). And, a forPlori^ the ideas of pain, of colours, 
of sounds, and of all similar things must be innate, in order 
that the mind may represent them to itself, on the occasion 
of certain motions of matter with which they have no re- 
semblance." 

Whoever denies what is, in fact, an inconceivable prop- 
osition, that sensations pass, as such, from the external 
world into the mind, must admit the conclusion here laid 



III.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 83 

down by Descartes, that, strictly speating, sensations, and, 
a fortiori^ all the other contents of the mind, are innate. 
Or, to state the matter in accordance with the views pre- 
viously expounded, that they are products of the inherent 
properties of the thinking organ, in which they lie poten- 
tially, before they are called into exigence by their appro- 
priate causes. 

But if all the contents of the mind are innate, what is 
meant by experience ? 

It is the conversion, by unknown causes, of these in- 
nate potentialities into actual existences. The organ of 
thought, prior to experience, may be compared to an un- 
touched piano, in which it may be properly said that mu- 
sic is innate, inasmuch as its mechanism contains, poten- 
tially, so many octaves of musical notes. The unknown 
cause of sensation which Descartes calls the "je ne sais 
quoi dans les objets " or " choses telles qu'elles sont ;" and 
Kant the *^Noumenon" or "Ding an sich;" is represented 
by the musician, who, by touching the keys, converts the 
potentiality of the mechanism into actual sounds. A note 
so produced is the equivalent of a single experience. 

All the melodies and harmonies that proceed from the 
piano depend upon the action of the musician upon the 
keys. There is no internal mechanism which, when cer- 
tain keys are struck, gives rise to an accompaniment of 
which the musician is only indirectly the cause. Accord- 
ing to Descartes, however — and this is what is generally 
fixed upon as the essence of his doctrine of innate ideas — 
the mind possesses such an internal mechanism, by which 
certain classes of thoughts are generated, on the occasion 
of certain experiences. Such thoughts are innate, just as 
sensations are innate ; they are not copies of sensations, 
any more than sensations are copies of motions ; they are 



84 HUME. [chap. 

invariably ge-nerated in the mind, when certain experi- 
ences arise in it, just as sensations are invariably generated 
when certain bodily motions take place ; tliey are univer- 
sal, inasmach as they arise under the same conditions in 
all men ; they are necessary, because their genesis under 
these conditions is invariable. These innate thoughts are 
what Descartes terms ^^ verites " or truths ; that is, beliefs 
— and his notions respecting them are plainly set forth in 
a passage of the Principes, 

''Thus far I have discussed that which we know as 
things: it remains that I should speak of that which we 
know as truths. For example, when we think that it is im- 
possible to make anything out of nothing, we do not imag- 
ine that this proposition is a thing which exists, or a projDer- 
ty of something, but we take it for a certain eternal truth, 
which has its seat in the mind {iieiisee)^ and is called a com- 
mon notion or an axiom. Similarly, when we affirm that it 
is impossible that one and the same thing should exist and 
not exist at the same time ; that that which has been created 
should not have been created ; that he who thinks must ex- 
ist while he thinks ; and a number of other like proposi- 
tions — these are only truths, and not things which exist out- 
side our thoughts. And there is such a number of these 
that it would be wearisome to enumerate them : nor is it 
necessary to do so, because we cannot fail to know them 
w^hen the occasion of thinking about them presents itself, 
and w^e are not blinded by any prejudices." 

It would appear that Locke was not more familiar with 
Descartes' writing's than Hume seems to have been ; for, 
viewed in relation to the passages just cited, the argu- 
ments adduced in his famous polemic against innate ideas 
are totally irrelevant. 

It has been shown that Hume practically, if not in so 



iTi.] ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS. 85 

many words, admits tlie justice of Descartes' assertion 
that, strictly speaking, sensations are innate ; that is to 
say, tliat tliey are the product of the reaction of the or- 
gan of the mind on the stimulus of an " unknown cause," 
which is Descartes' " je ne sais quoi." Therefore, the dif- 
ference between Descartes' opinion and that of Hume re- 
solves itself into this : Given sensation-experiences, can all 
the contents of consciousness be derived from the collo- 
cation and metamorphosis of these experiences ? Or, are 
new elements of consciousness, products of an innate po- 
tentiality distinct from sensibility, added to these ? Hume 
affirms the former position, Descartes the latter. If the 
analysis of the phenomena of consciousness given in the 
preceding pages is correct, Hume is in error; while the 
father of modern philosophy had a truer insight, though 
he overstated the case. For want of sufficiently searching 
psychological investigations, Descartes was led to suppose 
that innumerable ideas', the evolution of which in the 
course of experience can be demonstrated, were direct or 
innate products of the thinking faculty. 

As has been already pointed out, it is the great merit 
of Kant that he started afresh on the track indicated by 
Descartes, and steadily upheld the doctrine of the exist- 
ence of elements of consciousness, which are neither sense- 
experiences nor any modifications of them. We may de- 
mur to the expression that space and time are forms of 
sensory intuition ; but it imperfectly represents the great 
fact that co-existence and succession are mental phenom- 
ena not given in the mere sense-experience.^ 

1 "^^ii' konnen uns keinen Gegenstand denken, ohne durch Kate- 
gorien; wir konnen keinen gedachten Gegenstand erkennen, ohne 
durcli Anschauungen, die jenen Begriffen entsprechen. Nun sind 
alle unsere Anschauungen sinnUch, und diese Erkenntniss, so fern 



86 HUME. [chap. 

der Gegenstand derselben gegeben ist, ist empirisch. Empirische 
Erkenntniss aber ist Erfahrung. Folglich ist uns keine Erkennt- 
niss a priori moglich, als lediglich von Gegenstanden moglicher 
Erfahrung. 

"Aber diese Erkenntniss, die bloss auf Gegenstande der ErfahruDg 
eingeschrankt ist, ist darum nicht alle von der Erfahrung entlehnt, 
sondern was sowohl die reinen Anschauungen, als die reinen Yer- 
standesbegriffe betrifft, so sind sie Elemente der Erkenntniss die in 
uns a priori angetroffen werden." — Kritik der reinen Vernunft, Me- 
mentarlehre^ p. 135. 

Without a glossary explanatory of Kant's terminology, this pas- 
sage would be hardly intelligible in a translation ; but it may be par- 
aphrased thus : All knowledge is founded upon experiences of sensa- 
tion, but it is not all derived from those experiences ; inasmuch as 
the impressions of relation ("reine Anschauungen;" " reine Yerstan- 
desbegriffe ") have a potential or a priori existence in us, and by 
their addition to sense-experiences, constitute knowledge. 



lY.l NOMENCLATUKE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 81 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CLASSIFICATION AND THE NOMENCLATURE OP MENTAL 

OPERATIONS. 

If, as has been set forth in the preceding chapter, all men- 
tal states are effects of physical causes, it follows that what 
are called mental faculties and operations are, properly 
speaking, cerebral functions, allotted to definite, though 
not yet precisely assignable, parts of the brain. 

These functions appear to be reducible to three groups, 
namely : Sensation, Correlation, and Ideation. 

The organs of the functions of sensation and correla- 
tion are those portions of the cerebral substance, the mo- 
lecular changes of which give rise to impressions of sen- 
sation and impressions of relation. 

The chano:es in the nervous matter which brino* about 
the effects which we call its functions, follow upon some 
kind of stimulus, and rapidly reaching their maximum, as 
rapidly die away. The effect of the irritation of a nerve- 
fibre on the cerebral substance with which it is connected 
may be compared to the pulling of a long bell-wire. The 
impulse takes a little time to reach the bell ; the bell rings 
and then becomes quiescent, until another pull is given. 
So, in the brain, every sensation is the ring of a cerebral 
particle, the effect of a momentary impulse sent along a 
nerve-fibre. 



88 HUME. [chap. 

If tliere were a complete likeness between the two 
terms of this very rough and ready comparison, it is ob- 
vious that there could be no such thing as memory. A 
bell records no audible sign of having been rung five min- 
utes ago, and the activity of a sensigenous cerebral par- 
ticle might similarly leave no trace. Under these circum- 
stances, again, it would seem that the only impressions of 
relation which could arise would be those of co-existence 
and of similarity. For succession implies memory of an 
antecedent state. ^ 

But the special peculiarity of the cerebral apparatus is, 
.that any given function which has once been performed 
is very easily set a-going again, by causes more or less 
different from those to which it owed its origin. Of the 
mechanism of this generation of images of impressions or 
ideas (in Hume's sense), which may be termed Ideation^ 
we know nothing at present, though the fact and its re- 
sults are familiar enough. 

During our waking, and many of our sleeping, hours, 
in fact, the function of ideation is in continual, if not con- 
tinuous, activity. Trains of thought, as we call them, 
succeed one another without intermission, even when the 
starting of new trains by fresh sense-impressions is as far 
as possible prevented. The rapidity and the intensity of 
this ideational process are obviously dependent upon phys- 
iological conditions. The widest differences in these re- 
spects are constitutional in men of different tempera- 
ments ; and are observable in oneself, under varying con- 
ditions of hunger and repletion, fatigue and freshness, 

^ It is not worth while, for the present purpose, to consider wheth- 
er, as all nervous action occupies a sensible time, the duration of one 
impression might not overlap that of the impression which follows it, 
in the case supposed. 



lY.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 89 

calmness and emotional excitement. The influence of 
diet on dreams ; of stimulants upon the fulness and the 
velocity of the stream of thought ; the delirious phantasms 
generated by disease, by hashish, or by alcohol — will oc- 
cur to every one as examples of the marvellous sensitive- 
ness of the apparatus of ideation to purely physical 
influences. 

The succession of mental states in ideation is not for- 
tuitous, but follows the law of association, which may be 
stated thus : that every idea tends to be followed by some 
other idea which is associated with the first, or its im- 
pression, by a relation of succession, of contiguity, or of 
likeness. 

Thus the idea of the word horse just now presented 
itself to my mind, and was followed in quick succession 
by the ideas of four legs, hoofs, teeth, rider, saddle, racing, 
cheating ; all of which ideas are connected in my experi- 
ence with the impression, or the idea, of a horse and with 
one another, by the relations of contiguity and succession. 
No great attention to what passes in the mind is needful 
to prove that our trains of thought are neither to be ar- 
rested, nor even permanently controlled, by our desires or 
emotions. Nevertheless they are largely influenced by 
them. In the presence of a strong desire, or emotion, the 
stream of thouo:ht no lon2:er flows on in a straio-ht course, 
but seems, as it were, to eddy round the idea of that which 
is the object of the emotion. Every one who has " eaten 
his bread in sorrow " knows how strangely the current of 
ideas whirls about the conception of the object of regret 
or remorse as a centre ; every now and then, indeed, break- 
ing away into the new tracks suggested by passing asso- 
ciations, but still returnino; to the central thouo'ht. Few 
can have been so happy as to have escaped the social bore, 



90 HUME. [chap. 

whose pet notion is certain to crop up whatever topic is 
started; while the fixed idea of the monomaniac is but 
the extreme form of the same phenomenon. 

And as, on the one hand, it is so hard to drive away 
the thought we would fain be rid of ; so, upon the other, 
the pleasant imaginations which we would so gladly retain 
are, sooner or later, jostled away by the crowd of claim- 
ants for birth into the world of consciousness ; which 
hover as a sort of psychical possibilities, or inverse ghosts, 
the bodily presentments of spiritual phenomena to be, in 
the limbo of the brain. In that form of desire which is 
called ** attention," the train of thought, held fast, for a 
time, in the desired direction, seems ever striving to get 
on to another line — and the junctions and sidings are so 
multitudinous ! 

The constituents of trains of ideas may be grouped in 
various ways. 
Hume says: — 

*' We find, by experience, that when any impression has 
been present in the mind, it again makes its aj)pearance 
there as an idea, and this it may do in two different ways : 
either .when, on its new appearance, it retains a considerable 
degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat intermediate be- 
tween an imj)ression and an idea ; or when it entirely loses 
that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. The faculty by which 
we repeat our impressions in the first manner is called the 
memory^ and the other the imagination^'' — (I. p. 23, 24.) 

And he considers that the only difference between ideas 
of imagination and those of memory, except the superior 
vivacity of the latter, lies in the fact that those of memory 
preserve the original order of the impressions from which 



IV.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 91 

they are derived, while the imagination " is free to trans- 
pose and change its ideas." 

The latter statement of the difference between memory 
and imagination is less open to cavil than the former, 
though by no means unassailable. 

The special characteristic of a memory, surely, is not its 
vividness ; but that it is a complex idea, in Avhich the idea 
of that which is remembered is related by co- existence 
with other ideas, and by antecedence with present im- 
pressions. 

If I say I remember A. B., the chance acquaintance of 
ten years ago, it is not because my idea of A. B. is very 
vivid — on the contrary, it is extremely faint — but because 
that idea is associated wdth ideas of impressions co-exist- 
ent with those which I call A. B. ; and that all these are 
at the end of the long series of ideas, which represent that 
much past time. In truth, I have a much more vivid idea 
of Mr. Pickwick, or of Colonel Newcome, than I have of 
A. B. ; but, associated with the ideas of these persons, I 
have no idea of their having ever been derived from the 
world of impressions ; and so they are relegated to the 
world of imagination. On the other hand, the character- 
istic of an imagination may properly be said to lie not in 
its intensity, but in the fact that, as Hume puts it, " the 
arrangement," or the relations, of the ideas are different 
from those in wdiich the impressions, whence these ideas 
are derived, occurred ; or, in other words, that the thing 
imagined has not happened. In popular usage, however, 
imagination is frequently employed for simple memory — 
" In imagination I was back in the old times." 

It is a curious omission on Hume's part that, w^hile 
thus dwelling on two classes of ideas, Memories and Im- 
aginations, he has not, at the same time, taken notice of 
5 



92 HUME. [chap. 

a third group, of no small importance, which are as differ- 
ent from imaginations as memories are ; though, like the 
latter, they are often confounded with pure imaginations 
in general speech. These are the ideas of expectation, or, 
as they may be called for the sake of brevity, Expecta- 
tions ; which differ from simple imaginations in being as- 
sociated with the idea of the existence of corresponding 
impressions, in the future, just as memories contain the 
idea of the existence of the corresponding impressions in 
the past. 

The ideas belonging to two of the three groups enumer- 
ated : namely, memories and expectations, present some 
features of particular interest. And first, with respect to 
memories. 

In Hume's words, all simple ideas are copies of simple 
impressions. The idea of a single sensation is a faint, but 
accurate, image of that sensation ; the idea of a relation is a 
reproduction of the feeling of co-existence, of succession, or 
of similarity. But, when complex impressions or complex 
ideas are reproduced as memories, it is probable that the 
copies never give all the details of the originals with perfect 
accuracy, and it is certain that they rarely do so. No one 
possesses a memory so good, that if he has only once ob- 
served a natural object, a second inspection does not show 
him something that he has forgotten. Almost all, if not 
all, our memories are therefore sketches, rather than por- 
traits, of the originals — the salient features are obvious, while 
the subordinate characters are obscure or unrepresented. 

Now, when several complex impressions which are more 
or less different from one another — let us say that out of 
ten impressions in each, six are the same in all, and four 
are different from all the rest — are successively presented 
to the mind, it is easy to see what must be the nature of 



IV.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 93 

tlie result. The repetition of tlie six similar impressions 
will strengthen the six corresponding elements of the com- 
plex idea, which will therefore acquire greater vividness ; 
while the four differing impressions of each will not only 
acquire no greater strength than they had at first, but, in 
accordance with the law of association, they will all tend 
to appear at once, and will thus neutralise one another. 

This mental operation may be rendered comprehensible 
by considering what takes place in the formation of com- 
pound photographs — when the images of the faces of six 
sitters, for example, are each received on the same photo- 
graphic plate, for a sixth of the time requisite to take one 
portrait. The final result is that all those points In which 
the six faces agree are brought out strongly, while all 
those in which they differ are left vague ; and thus what 
may be termed a generic portrait of the six, in contradis- 
tinction to a specific portrait of any one, is produced. 

Thus our ideas of single complex impressions are in- 
complete in one way, and those of numerous, more or less 
similar, complex impressions are incomplete in another 
way ; that is to say, they are generic^ not sj^ecific. And 
hence it follows that our ideas of the impressions in ques- 
tion are not, in the strict sense of the word, copies of 
those impressions ; while, at the same time, they may ex- 
ist in the mind independently of language. 

The generic ideas which are formed from several simi- 
lar, but not identical, complex experiences are what are 
commonly called abstract or general ideas ; and Berkeley 
endeavoured to prove that all general ideas are nothing but 
particular ideas annexed to a certain term, which gives 
them a more extensive signification, and makes them recall, 
upon occasion, other individuals which are similar to them. 
Hume says that he regards this as '* one of the greatest 



94 HUME. [chap. 

and the most valuable discoveries that has been made of 
late years in the republic of letters," and endeavours to 
confirm it in such a manner that it shall be *^ put beyond 
all doubt and controversv." 

I may venture to express a doubt whether he has suc- 
ceeded in his object ; but the subject is an abstruse one ; 
and I must content myself with the remark, that though 
Berkeley's view appears to be largely applicable to such 
general ideas as are formed after language has been ac- 
quired, and to all the more abstract sort of conceptions, 
yet that general ideas of sensible objects may nevertheless 
be produced in the way indicated, and may exist inde- 
pendently of language. In dreams, one sees houses, trees, 
and other objects, which are perfectly recognisable as 
such, but which remind one of the actual objects as seen 
" out of the corner of the eye," or of the pictures thrown 
by a badly-focussed magic lantern. A man addresses us 
who is like a figure seen by twilight ; or we travel through 
countries where every feature of the scenery is vague ; 
the outlines of the hills are ill-marked, and the rivers have 
no defined banks. They are, in short, generic ideas of 
many past impressions of men, hills, and rivers. An anat- 
omist who occupies himself intently with the examination 
of several specimens of some new kind of animal, in 
course of time acquires so vivid a conception of its form 
r.nd structure, that the idea may take visible shape and be- 
come a sort of waking dream. But the figure which thus 
presents itself is generic, not specific. It is no copy of 
any one specimen, but, more or less, a mean of the series ; 
and there seems no reason to doubt that the minds of 
children befoi'e they learn to speak, and of deaf-mutes, 
are peopled with similarly generated generic ideas of sensi- 
ble objects. 



lY.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 95 

It lias been seen that a memory is a complex idea 
made up of at least two constituents. In tlie first place, 
there is the idea of an object ; and, secondly, there is the 
idea of the relation of antecedence between that object 
and some present objects. 

To say that one has a recollection of a given event and 
to express the belief that it happened, are two ways of 
giving an account of one and the same mental fact. But 
the former mode of stating the fact of memory is prefer- 
able, at present, because it certainly does not presuppose 
the existence of language in the mind of the rememberer ; 
while it may be said that the latter does. It is perfectly 
possible to have the idea of an event A, and of the events 
B, C, D, which came between it and the present state E, 
as mere mental pictures. It is hardly to be doubted that 
children have very distinct memories long before they can 
speak ; and ^ve believe that such is the case because they 
act upon their memories. But, if they act upon their 
memories, they to all intents and purposes believe their 
memories. In other words, though, being devoid of lan- 
guage, the child cannot frame a proposition expressive of 
belief ; cannot say " siigar-plum w^as sweet ;" yet the psy- 
chical operation of w^hich that proposition is merely the 
verbal expression is perfectly effected. The experience 
of the co-existence of sw^eetness wdth sugar has produced 
a state of mind w^hich bears the same relation to a verbal 
proposition as the natural disposition to produce a given 
idea, assumed to exist by Descartes as an " innate idea " 
would bear to that idea put into w^ords. 

The fact that the beliefs of memory precede the use of 
language, and therefore are originally purely instinctive, 
and independent of any rational justification, should have 
been of great importance to Hame, from its bearing upon 



96 HUME. [chap. 

his theory of causation ; and it is curious that he has not 
adverted to it, but always takes the trustworthiness of 
memories for granted. It may be worth while briefly to 
make good the omission. 

That I was in pain, yesterday, is as certain to me as any 
matter of fact can be ; by no effort of the imagination is 
it possible for me really to entertain the contrary belief. 
At the same time, I am bound to admit that the whole 
foundation for my belief is the fact that the idea of pain 
is indissolubly associated in my mind with the idea of 
that much past time. Any one who will be at the trouble 
may provide himself with hundreds of examples to the 
same effect. 

This and similar observations are important under an- 
other aspect. They prove that the idea of even a single 
strong impression may be so powerfully associated with 
that of a certain time, as to originate a belief of which the 
contrary is inconceivable, and which may therefore be 
properly said to be necessary. A single weak, or moder- 
ately strong, impression may not be represented by any 
memory. Bat this defect of weak experiences may be 
compensated by their repetition ; and what Hume means 
by " custom " or " habit " is simply the repetition of ex- 
periences — 

" wherever the repetition of any particular act or operation 
produces a propensity to renew the same act or operation, 
without being impelled by any reasoning or process of the 
understanding, we always say that this jDropensity is the ef- 
fect of Custom. By employing that word, we pretend not to 
have given the ultimate reason of such a propensity. We 
only point out a principle of human nature which is univer- 
sally acknowledged, and which is w'ell known by its ef- 
fects."— (IV. p. 52.) 



IV.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 97 

It has been shown that an expectation is a complex 
idea which, like a memory, is made up of two constitu- 
ents. The one is the idea of an object, the other is the 
idea of a relation of sequence between that object and 
some present object ; and the reasoning which applied to 
memories applies to expectations. To have an expecta- 
tion^ of a given event, and to believe that it will happen, 
are only two modes of stating the same fact. Again, just 
in the same v/ay as we call a memory, put into words, a 
belief, so we give the same name to an expectation in like 
clothing. And the fact already cited, that a child before 
it can speak acts upon its memories, is good evidence that 
it forms expectations. The infant who knows the mean- 
ing neither of " sugar-plum " nor of " sweet," nevertheless 
is in full possession of that complex idea, which, when he 
has learned to employ language, will take the form of the 
verbal proposition, "A sugar-plum will be sweet." 

Thus, beliefs of expectation, or at any rate their poten- 
tialities, are, as much as those of memory, antecedent to 
speech, and are as incapable of justification by any logical 
process. In fact, expectations are but memories inverted. 
The association which is the foundation of expectation 
must exist as a memory before it can play its part. As 
Hume says, — 

"... it is certain w^e here advance a very intelligible prop- 
osition at least, if not a true one, when we assert that after 
the constant conjunction of two objects, heat and flame, for 
instance, weight and solidity, we are determined by custom 

^ We give no name to faint memories ; but expectations of like 
character play so large a part in human affairs that they, together 
^Yith the associated emotions of pleasure and pain, are distinguished 
as " hopes " or " fears." 



98 HUME. [CHAP» 

alone to expect the one from the appearance of the other. 
This hypothesis seems even the only one which explains the 
difficulty why we draw from a thousand instances, an infer- 
ence which we are not able to draw from one instance, that 
is in no respect different from them." ... 

" Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is that 
principle alone which renders our experience useful to us, 
and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train of events 
with those which have appeared in the past." . . . 

^'All belief of matter-of-fact or real existence is derived 
merely from some object present to the memoiy or senses, 
and a customary conjunction between that and some other 
object; or, in other words, having found, in many instances, 
that any two kinds of objects, flame and heat, snow and cold, 
have always been conjoined together : if flame or snow be 
presented anew to the senses, the mind is carried by custom 
to expect heat or cold, and to 'believe that such a quality does 
exist, and will discover itself upon a nearer approach. This 
belief is the necessary result of placing the mind in such cir- 
cumstances. It is an operation of the soul, when we are so 
situated, as unavoidable as to feel the passion of love when 
we receive benefits, or hatred when we meet with injuries. 
All these operations are a species of natural instincts, which 
no reasoning or process of the thought and understanding 
is able either to produce or to prevent." — (IV. pp. 52 — 56.) 

The only comment that appears needful here is, that 
Hume has attached somewhat too exchisive a weight to 
that repetition of experiences to which alone the term 
" custom " can be properly applied. The proverb says 
that " a burnt child dreads the fire ;" and any one who 
will make the experiment will find that one burning is 
quite suflScient to establish an indissoluble belief that con- 
tact with fire and pain go together. 

As a sort of inverted memory, expectation follows the 
same laws ; hence, while a belief of expectation is, in most 



IT.] NOMENCLATUEE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS. 99 

cases, as Hume truly says, established by custom, or the 
repetition of weak impressions, it may quite well be based 
upon a single strong experience. In the absence of lan- 
guage, a specific memory cannot be strengthened by repe- 
tition. It is obvious that that which has happened cannot 
happen again, with the same collateral associations of co- 
existence and succession. But memories of the co-exist- 
ence and succession of impressions are capable of being 
indefinitely strengthened by the recurrence of similar im- 
pressions, in the same order, even though the collateral as- 
sociations are totally different ; in fact, the ideas of these 
impressions become generic. 

If I recollect that a piece of ice was cold yesterday, 
nothing can strengthen the recollection of that particular 
fact ; on the contrary, it may grow weaker, in the absence 
of any record of it. But if I touch ice to-day and again 
find it cold, the association is repeated, and the memory 
of it becomes stronger. And, by this very simple process 
of repetition of experience, it has become utterly impossi- 
ble for us to think of having handled ice without think- 
ing of its coldness. But, that which is, under the one as- 
pect, the strengthening of a memory, is, under the other, 
the intensification of an expectation. Not only can we 
not think of having touched ice without feeling cold, but 
we cannot think of touching ice in the future without ex- 
pecting to feel cold. An expectation so strong that it 
cannot be changed, or abolished, may thus be generated 
out of repeated experiences. And it is important to note 
that such expectations may be formed quite unconscious- 
ly. In my dressing-room, a certain can is usually kept 
full of water, and I am in the habit of lifting it to pour 
out water for washing. Sometimes the servant has for- 
gotten to fill it, and then I find that, when I take hold of 
5* 



XOO HUME. [chap. 

the handle, the can goes np with a jerk. Long associa- 
tion has, in fact, led me to expect the can to have a con- 
siderable weight ; and, quite unawares, my muscular effort 
is adjusted to the expectation. 

The process of strengthening generic memories of suc- 
cession, and, at the same time, intensifying expectations of 
succession, is what is commonly called vei^ification. The 
impression B has frequently been observed to follow the 
impression A. The association thus produced is repre- 
sented as the memory, A ^-^ B. When the impression A 
appears again, the idea of B follows, associated with that 
of the immediate appearance of the impression B. If the 
impression B does appear, the expectation is said to be 
verified ; while the memory A •-> B is strengthened, and 
gives rise in turn to a stronger expectation. And repeat- 
ed verification may render that expectation so strong that 
its non-verification is inconcei viable. 



T.] MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. 101 



CHAPTER V. 

MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. 

In the course of the preceding chapters attention has 
been more than once called to the fact, that the elements 
of consciousness and the operations of the mental facul- 
ties, under discussion, exist independently of, and antece- 
dent to, the existence of language. 

If any weight is to be attached to arguments from 
analogy, there is overwhelming evidence in favour of the 
belief that children, before they can speak, and deaf-mutes, 
possess the feelings to which those who have acquired the 
faculty of speech apply the name of sensations ; that they 
have the feelings of relation; that trains of ideas pass 
through their minds ; that generic ideas are formed from 
specific ones ; and that among these ideas of memory 
and expectation occupy a most important place, inasmuch 
as, in their quality of potential beliefs, they furnish the 
grounds of action. This conclusion, in truth, is one of 
those which, though they cannot be demonstrated, are 
never doubted ; and, since it is highly probable and can- 
not be disproved, we are quite safe in accepting it as, at 
any rate, a good w^orking hypothesis. 

But, if we accept it, we must extend it to a much wider 
assemblage of living beings. "Whatever cogency is at- 
tached to the arguments in favor of the occurrence of 



102 HUME. [chap. 

all the fundamental plienomena of mind in young children 
and deaf-mutes, an equal force must be allowed to apper- 
tain to those which may be adduced to prove that the 
higher animals have minds. We must admit that Hume 
does not express himself too strongly when he says — 

"no truth appears to me more evident than that the beasts 
are endowed with thought and reason as well as men. The 
arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape 
the most stupid and ignorant." — (I. p. 232.) 

In fact, this is one of the few cases in which the con- 
viction which forces itself upon the stupid and the igno- 
rant, is fortified by the reasonings of the intelligent, and 
has its foundation deepened by every increase of knowl- 
edge. It is not merely that the observation of the actions 
of animals almost irresistibly suggests the attribution to 
them of mental states, such as those which accompany 
corresponding actions in men. The minute comparison 
which has been instituted by anatomists and physiologists 
between the organs which we know to constitute the ap- 
paratus of thought in man, and the corresponding organs 
in brutes, has demonstrated the existence of the closest 
similarity betw^een the tw^o, not only in structure, as far as 
the microscope will carry us, but in function, as far as 
functions are determinable by experiment. There is no 
question in the mind of any one acquainted with the facts 
that, so far as observation and experiment can take us, 
the structure and the functions of the nervous system are 
fundamentally the same in an ape, or in a dog, and in a 
man. And the suggestion that we must stop at the exact 
point at which direct proof fails us; and refuse to believe 
that the similarity which extends so far stretches yet 
further, is no better than a quibble. Robinson Crusoe 



v.] MENTxVL PHEXOMEXxi OF ANIMALS. 103 

did not feel bound to conclude, from the single human 
footprint which he saw in the sand, that the maker of the 
impression had only one leg. 

Structure for structure, down to the minutest micro- 
scopical details, the eye, the ear, the olfactory organs, 
the nerves, the spinal cord, the brain of an ape, or of a 
dog, correspond w^ith the same organs in the human sub- 
ject. Cut a nerve, and the evidence of paralysis, or of 
insensibility, is the same in the two cases ; apply pressure 
to the brain, or administer a narcotic, and the signs of in- 
telligence disappear in the one as in the other. Whatever 
reason we have for believing that the changes which take 
place in the normal cerebral substance of man give rise to 
states of consciousness, the same reason exists for the be- 
lief that the modes of motion of the cerebral substance of 
an ape, or of a dog, produce like effects. 

A dog acts as if he had all the different kinds of im- 
pressions of sensation of which each of us is cognisant. 
Moreover, he governs his movements exactly as if he had 
the feelings of distance, form, succession, likeness, and un- 
likeness, with which we are familiar, or as if the impres- 
sions of relation were generated in his mind as they are 
in our own. Sleeping dogs frequently appear to dream. 
If they do, it must be admitted that ideation goes on in 
them while they are asleep ; and, in that case, there is no 
reason to doubt that they are conscious of trains of ideas 
in their waking state. Further, that dogs, if they possess 
ideas at all, have memories and expectations, and those 
potential beliefs of which these states are the foundation, 
can hardly be doubted by any one who is conversant with 
their ways. Finally, there would appear to be no valid 
argument against the supposition that dogs form generic 
ideas of sensible objects. One of the most curious pecu- 



104 HUME. [chap. 

liarities of tlie dog mind is its inherent snobbishness, 
shown by .the regard paid to external respectability. The 
dog who barks furiously at a beggar will let a well-dressed 
man pass him without opposition. Has he not then a 
'' generic idea " of rags and dirt associated with the idea 
of aversion, and that of sleek broadcloth associated with 
the idea of liking^ ? 

In short, it seems hard to assign any good reason for 
denying to the higher animals any mental state, or process, 
in which the employment of the vocal or visual symbols 
of which language is composed is not involved ; and com- 
parative psychology confirms the position in relation to 
the rest of the animal world assigned to man by compara- 
tive anatomy. As comparative anatomy is easily able to 
show that, physically, man is but the last term of a long 
series of forms, which lead, by slow gradations, from the 
highest mammal to the almost formless speck of living 
protoplasm, which lies on the shadowy boundary between 
animal and vegetable life ; so, comparative psychology, 
though but a young science, and far short of her elder 
sister's growth, points to the same conclusion. 

In the absence of a distinct nervous system, we have 
no right to look for its product, consciousness ; and, even 
in those forms of animal life in which the nervous ap- 
paratus has reached no higher degree of development 
than that exhibited by the system of the spinal cord and 
the foundation of the brain in ourselves, the argument 
from analogy leaves the assumption of the existence of 
any form of consciousness unsupported. With the super- 
addition of a nervous apparatus corresponding with the 
cerebrum in ourselves, it is allowable to suppose the ap- 
pearance of the simplest states of consciousness, or the 
sensations ; and it is conceivable that these may at first 



v.] MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. 105 

exist, without any power of reproducing them, as memo- 
ries; and, consequently, without ideation. Still higher, 
an apparatus of correlation may be superadded, until, as 
all these organs become more developed, the condition of 
the highest speechless animals is attained. 

It is a remarkable example of Hume's sagacity that he 
perceived the importance of a branch of science which, 
even now, can hardly be said to exist; and that, in a re- 
markable passage, he sketches in bold outlines the chief 
features of comparative psychology. 

"... any theory, by w^hich we explain the operations of 
the understanding, or the origin and connexion of the pas- 
sions in man, will acquire additional authority if we find 
that the same theory is requisite to explain the same phe- 
nomena in all other animals. "We shall make trial of this 
wdth regard to the hypothesis by which we have, in the fore- 
going discourse, endeavoured to account for all experimen- 
tal reasonings; and it is hoped that this new point of view 
will serve to confirm all our former observations. 

^''Fk's% it seems evident that animals, as well as men, learn 
many things from experience, and infer that the same events 
will always follow from the same causes. By this principle 
they become acquainted w^ith the more obvious properties 
of external objects, and gradually, from their birth, treasure 
up a knowledge of the nature of fire, water, earth, stones, 
heights, depths, &c., and of the effects which result from their 
operation. The ignorance and inexperience of the young are 
here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and sagacity 
of the old, who have learned, by long observation, to avoid 
what hurt them, and pursue what gave ease or pleasure. A 
horse that has been accustomed to the field becomes ac- 
quainted with the proper height which he can leap, and will 
never attempt what exceeds his force and ability. An old 
greyhound will trust the more fiitiguing part of the chase 



106 HUME. [chap. 

to the younger, and will place himself so as to meet the hare 
in lier doubles ; nor are the conjectures which he forms on 
this occasion founded on anything but his observation and 
experience. 

'' This is still more evident from the effects of discipline 
and education on animals, who, by the proper application of 
rewards and punishments, may be taught any course of ac- 
tion, the most contrary to their natural instincts and propen- 
sities. Is it not experience which renders a dog apprehen- 
sive of pain when you menace him or lift up the whip to 
beat him ? Is it not even experience which makes him an- 
swer to his name, and infer from such an arbitrary sound 
that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and in- 
tend to call him, when you pronounce it in a certain manner 
and with a certain tone and accent ? 

"In all these cases we may observe that the animal infers 
some fact beyond what immediately strikes his senses ; and 
tliat this inference is altogether founded on past experience, 
while the creature expects from the present object the same 
consequences which it has always found in its observation to 
result from similar objects. 

^'' Secondly^ it is impossible that this inference of the animal 
can be founded on any process of argument or reasoning, by 
which he concludes that like events must follow like ob- 
jects, and that the course of nature will always be regular in 
its operations. For if there be in reality any arguments of 
this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for the observation 
of such imperfect understandings ; since it may well employ 
the utmost care and attention of a philosoj^hic genius to dis- 
cover and observe them. Animals, therefore, are not guided 
in these inferences by reasoning; neither are children; nei-. 
ther are the generality of mankind in their ordinary actions 
and conclusions ; neither are philosophers themselves, who, 
in all the active parts of life, are in the main the same as the 
vulgar, and are governed by the same maxims. Nature must 
have provided some other principle, of more ready and more 



v.] MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. 107 

general use and application ; nor can an operation of such 
immense consequence in life as that of inferring effects from 
causes, be trusted to the uncertain process of reasoning and 
argumentation. Were this doubtful with regard to men, it 
seems to admit of no question with regard to the brute cre- 
ation; and the conclusion being once firmly established in 
the one, we have a strong presumption, from all the rules of 
analogy, that it ought to be universally admitted, without 
any exception or reserve. It is custom alone which engages 
animals, from every object that strikes their senses, to infer 
its usual attendant, and carries their imagination from the 
appearance of the one to conceive the other, in that particu- 
lar manner which we denominate 'belief. No other explica- 
tion can be given of this operation in all the higher as well 
as lower classes of sensitive beings which fall under our no- 
tice and observation." — (lY. pp. 122 — 4.) 

It will be observed that Hume appears to contrast the 
" inference of the animal " with the ^' process of argument 
or reasoning in man." But it would be a complete mis- 
apprehension of his intention, if we were to suppose that 
he thereby means to imply that there is any real differ- 
ence between the two processes. The " inference of the 
animal " is a potential belief of expectation ; the process 
of argument, or reasoning, in man is based upon potential 
beliefs of expectation, which are formed in the man exact- 
ly in the same way as in the animal. But, in men endow- 
ed with speech, the mental state which constitutes the po- 
tential belief is represented by a verbal proposition, and 
thus becomes what all the world recognises as a belief. 
The fallacy which Hume combats is that the proposition, 
or verbal representative of a belief, has come to be regard- 
ed as a reality, instead of as the mere symbol which it 
really is; and that reasoning, or logic, which deals with 
nothing but propositions, is supposed to be necessary in 



108 HUME. [chap. 

order to validate the natural fact symbolised by those 
propositions. It is a fallacy similar to that of supposing 
that money is the foundation of wealth, whereas it is only 
the wholly unessential symbol of property. 

In the passage w^hich immediately follows that just 
quoted, Hume makes admissions which might be turned 
to serious account against some of his own doctrines-: 

"But though animals learn many parts of their knowledge 
from observation, there are also many parts of it wdiich they 
derive from the original hand of Nature, which much exceed 
the share of capacity they possess on ordinary occasions, and 
in which they improve, little or nothing, by the longest j^rac- 
tice and experience. These we denominate Instincts, and 
are so apt to admire as something very extraordinary and in- 
explicable by all the disquisitions of human understanding. 
But our wonder will perhaps cease or diminish when w^e con- 
sider that the experimental reasoning itself, wdiich we pos- 
sess in common with beasts, and on wdiich the w^hole con- 
duct of life depends, is nothing but a species of instinct or 
mechanical powder, that acts in us unknown to ourselves, and 
in its chief operations is not directed by any such relations 
or comparison of ideas as are the jDroper objects of our intel- 
lectual faculties. 

" Though the instinct be different, yet still it is an instinct 
"which teaches a man to avoid the fire, as much as that which 
teaches a bird, with such exactness, the art of incubation 
and the wdiole economy and order of its nursery." — (IV. pp. 
125,126.) 

The parallel here drawn between the " avoidance of a 
fire" by a man and the incubatory instinct of a bird is 
inexact. The man avoids fire wdien he has had experi- 
ence of the pain produced by burning ; but the bird incu- 
bates the first time it lays eggs, and therefore before it has 
had any experience of incubation. For the comparison to 



T.] MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. 109 

be admissible, it would be necessary that a man should 
avoid fire the first time he saw it, which is notoriously not 
the case. 

The term " instinct " is very vague and ill-defined. It 
is commonly employed to denote any action, or even feel- 
ing, which is not dictated by conscious reasoning, whether 
it is, or is not, the result of previous experience. It is 
*' instinct" which leads a chicken just hatched to pick up 
a grain of corn ; parental love is said to be " instinctive ;'' 
the drownins: man who catches at a straw does it "in- 
stinctively ;" and the hand that accidentally touches some- 
thing hot is drawn back by " instinct." Thus " instinct " 
is made to cover everything from a simple reflex move- 
ment, in which the organ of consciousness need not be at 
all implicated, up to a complex combination of acts di- 
rected towards a definite end and accompanied by intense 
consciousness. 

But this loose employment of the term "instinct" real- 
ly accords with the nature of the thing ; for it is wholly 
impossible to draw any line of demarcation between reflex 
actions and instincts. If a frog, on the flank of which a 
little drop of acid has been placed, rubs it off with the 
foot of the same side ; and, if that foot be held, performs 
the same operation, at the cost of much effort, with the 
other foot, it certainly displays a curious instinct. But it 
is no less true that the whole operation is a reflex opera- 
tion of the spinal cord, which can be performed quite as 
well when the brain is destroyed ; and between which and 
simple reflex actions there is a complete series of grada- 
tions. In like manner, wlien an infant takes the breast, 
it is impossible to say whether the action should be rather 
termed instinctive or reflex. 

What are usually called the instincts of animals are, 



110 HUME. [chap. 

however, acts of sucli a nature tliat, if tliey were per- 
formed by men, they would involve the generation of a 
series of ideas and of inferences from them ; and it is a 
curious, and apparently an insoluble, problem whether they 
are, or are not, accompanied by cerebral changes of the 
same nature as those which give rise to ideas and infer- 
ences in ourselves. "When a chicken picks up a grain, for 
example, are there, firstly, certain sensations, accompanied 
by the feeling of relation between the grain and its own 
body ; secondly, a desire of the grain ; thirdly, a volition 
to seize it ? Or, are only the sensational terms of the series 
actually represented in consciousness ? 

The latter seems the more probable opinion, though it 
must be admitted that the other alternative is possible. 
But, in this case, the series of mental states which occurs 
is such as would be represented in language by a series of 
propositions, and would afford proof positive of the ex- 
istence of innate ideas, in the Cartesian sense. Indeed, a 
metaphysical fowl, brooding over the mental operations of 
his fully-fledged consciousness, might appeal to the fact as 
proof that, in the very first action of his life, he assumed 
the existence of the Ego and the non-Ego, and of a rela- 
tion between the two. 

In all seriousness, if the existence of instincts be grant- 
ed, the possibility of the existence of innate ideas, in the 
most extended sense ever imagined by Descartes, must also 
be admitted. In fact, Descartes, as we have seen, illus- 
trates what he means by an innate idea, by the analogy of 
hereditary diseases or hereditary mental peculiarities, such 
as generosity. On the other hand, hereditary mental ten- 
dencies may justly be termed instincts ; and still more ap- 
propriately might those special proclivities, which consti- 
tute what we call genius, come into the same category. 



Y.] MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS. Ill 

The cliild who is impelled to draw as soon as it can 
hold a pencil ; the Mozart who breaks out into music as 
early; the boy Bidder who worked out the most compli- 
cated sums without learning arithmetic ; the boy Pascal 
who evolved Euclid out of his own consciousness : all 
these may be said to have been impelled by instinct, as 
much as are the beaver and the bee. And the man of 
genius is distinct in kind from the man of cleverness, by 
reason of the workino* within him of strong; innate ten- 
dencies — which cultivation may improve, but which it can 
no more create than horticulture can make thistles bear 
figs. The analogy between a musical instrument and the 
mind holds good here also. Art and industry may get 
much music, of a sort, out of a penny whistle ; but, when 
all is done, it has no chance against an organ. The innate 
musical potentialities of the two are infinitely different. 



112 HUME. [chap. 



CHAPTER VI. 

LANGUAGE PROPOSITIONS CONCERNING NECESSARY 

TRUTHS. 

Though we may accept Hume's conclusion that speech- 
less animals think, believe, and reason ; yet it must be 
borne in mind that there is an important difference be- 
tween the signification of the terms when applied to them 
and when applied to those animals which possess lan- 
guage. The thoughts of the former are trains of mere 
feelings ; those of the latter are, in addition, trains of the 
ideas of the signs which represent feelings, and which are 
called " words." 

A word, in fact, is a spoken or written sign, the idea of 
which is, by repetition, so closely associated with the idea 
of the simple or complex feeling which it represents, that 
the association becomes indissoluble. No Englishman, for 
example, can think of the word *'dog" without imme- 
diately having the idea of the group of impressions to 
which that name is given ; and, conversely, the group of 
impressions immediately calls up the idea of the word 
*'dog." 

TJie association of words with impressions and ideas is 
the process of naming ; and language approaches perfec- 
tion, in proportion as the shades of difference between va- 
rious ideas and impressions are represented by differences 
in their names. 



VI.] LANGUAGE. 113 

The names of simple impressions and ideas, or of 
groups of co-existent or successive complex impressions 
and ideas, considered ^er se, are substantives ; as redness, 
dog, silver, mouth; while tlie names of impressions or 
ideas considered as parts or attributes of a complex whole, 
are adjectives. Thus redness, considered as part of the 
complex idea of a rose, becomes the adjective red ; flesh- 
eater, as part of the idea of a dog, is represented by car- 
nivorous ; whiteness, as part of the idea of silver, is white ; 
and so on. 

The linguistic machinery for the expression of belief is 
called p7'edication ; and, as all beliefs express ideas of rela- 
tion, we may say that the sign of predication is the verbal 
symbol of a feeling of relation. The words which serve 
to indicate predication are verbs. If I say ^' silver " and 
then " white," I merely utter two names ; but if I inter- 
pose between them the verb " is," I express a belief in the 
co-existence of the feeling of whiteness with the other feel- 
ings which constitute the totality of the complex idea of 
silver ; in other words, I predicate " whiteness " of silver. 

In such a case as this, the verb expresses predication 
and nothing else, and is called a copula. But, in the 
great majority of verbs, the word is the sign of a complex 
idea, and the predication is expressed only by its form. 
Thus in *^ silver shines," the verb " to shine " is the sign 
for the feeling of brightness, and the mark of predication 
lies in the form " shine-5." 

Another result is brouo;ht about bv the forms of verbs. 
By slight modifications they are made to indicate that a 
belief, or predication, is a memory, or is an expectation. 
Thus " silver sJione " expresses a memory ; " silver will 
shine" an expectation. 

The form of words which expresses a predication is a 



114 HUME. [chap. 

proposition. Hence, every predication is the verbal equiv- 
alent of a belief ; and as every belief is either an imme- 
diate consciousness, a memory, or an expectation, and as 
every expectation is traceable to a memory, it follows that, 
in the long run, all propositions express either immediate 
states of consciousness or memories. The proposition 
which predicates A of X must mean either, that the fact 
is testified by my present consciousness, as when I say that 
two colours, visible at this moment, resemble one another ; 
or that A is indissolubly associated with X in memory ; 
or that A is indissolubly associated with X in expectation. 
But it has already been show^n that expectation is only an 
expression of memory. 

Hume does not discuss the nature of language, but so 
much of what remains to be said, concerning his philo- 
sophical tenets, turns upon the value and the origin of 
verbal propositions, that this summary sketch of the rela- 
tions of language to the thinking process will probably 
not be deemed superfluous. 

So large an extent of the field of thought is traversed 
by Hume, in his discussion of the verbal propositions in 
which mankind enshrine their beliefs, that it would be 
impossible to follow him throughout all the windings of 
his long journey within the limits of this essay. I pur- 
pose, therefore, to limit myself to those propositions which 
concern — 1. Necessary Truths; 2. The order of ISTature ; 
3. The Soul; 4. Theism; 5. The Passions and Volition; 
6. The Principle of Morals. 

Hume's views respecting necessary truths, and more 
particularly concerning causation, have, more than any 
other part of his teaching, contributed to give him a 
prominent place in the history of philosophy. 



VI.] NECESSARY TRUTHS. 115 

^'All the objects of human reason and inquiry may natu- 
rally be divided into two kinds, to wit, relatmis of ideas and 
matters of fact. Of the first kind are the sciences of geome- 
try, algebra, and arithmetic, and, in short, every affirmation 
which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. That 
the square of the hypotheneuse is equal to the square of the two 
sides J is a proposition which expresses a relation between 
these two figures. That three times five is equal to the half of 
thirty^ expresses a relation between these numbers. Propo- 
sitions of this kind are discoverable by the mere operation 
of thought without dependence on whatever is anywhere ex- 
istent in the universe. Though there never were a circle or 
a triangle in nature, the truths demonstrated by Euclid would 
for ever retain their certainty and evidence. 

"Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human 
reason, are not ascertained in the same manner, nor is an 
evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with 
the foregoing. The contrary of every matter of fact is still 
possible, because it can never imply a contradiction, and is 
conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinct- 
ness as if ever so conformable to reality. That the sun will 
not rise to-morrow^ is no less intelligible a proposition, and 
implies no more contradiction, than the affirmation that it 
will rise. We should in vain, therefore, attempt to demon- 
strate its falsehood. Were it demonstratively fjiilse, it would 
imply a contradiction, and could never be distinctly con- 
ceived by the mind."— (lY., pp. 32, 33.) 

The distinction here drawn between the truths of ge- 
ometry and other kinds of truth is far less sharply indi- 
cated in the Treatise^ but as Hume expressly disowns any 
opinions on these matters but such as are expressed in the 
Inquiry^ we may confine ourselves to the latter ; and it is 
needful to look narrowly into the propositions here laid 
down, as much stress has been laid upon Hume's admis- 
sion that the truths of mathematics are intuitively and 
6 



116 HUME. [chap. 

demonstratively certain; in other words, that they are 
necessary and, in that respect, differ from all other kinds 
of belief. 

What is meant by the assertion that " propositions of 
this kind are discoverable by the mere operation of thought 
w^ithout dependence on what is anywhere existent in the 
universe ?" 

Suppose that there were no such things as impressions 
of sight and touch anywhere in the universe, what idea 
could we have even of a straight line, much less of a tri- 
angle and of the relations between its sides ? The funda- 
mental proposition of all Hume's philosophy is that ideas 
are copied from impressions ; and, therefore, if there were 
no impressions of straight lines and triangles, there could 
be no ideas of straight lines and triangles. But what we 
mean by the universe is the sum of our actual and possible 
impressions. 

So, again, whether our conception of number is derived 
from relations of impressions in space or in time, the im- 
pressions must exist in nature, that is, is in experience, 
before their relations can be perceived. Form and number 
are mere names for certain relations between matters of 
fact ; unless a man had seen or felt the difference between 
a straight line and a crooked one, straight and crooked 
would have no more meaning to him than red and blue to 
the blind. 

The axiom, that things which are equal to the same are 
equal to one another, is only a particular case of the pred- 
ication of similarity ; if there were no impressions, it is 
obvious that there could be no predicates. But what is 
an existence in the universe but an impression ? 

If what are called necessary truths are rigidly analysed, 
they will be found to be of two kinds. Either they de- 



VI. J NECESSARY TRUTHS. 117 

pend on the convention wliicli underlies the possibility of 
intelligible speech, that terms shall always have the same 
meaning ; or they are propositions the negation of which 
implies the dissolution of some association in memory or 
expectation, which is in fact indissoluble ; or the denial of 
some fact of immediate consciousness. 

The "necessary truth" A=rA means that the percep- 
tion which is called A shall always be called A. The 
" necessary truth " that " two straight lines cannot inclose 
a space," means that we have no memory, and can form 
no expectation of their so doing. The denial of the 
" necessary truth " that the thought now in my mind ex- 
ists, involves the denial of consciousness. 

To the assertion that the evidence of matter of fact 
is not so strong as that of relations of ideas, it may be 
justly replied that a great number of matters of fact are 
nothing but relations of ideas. If I say that red is unlike 
blue, I make an assertion concerning a relation of ideas ; 
but it is also matter of fact, and the contrary proposition 
is inconceivable. If I remember^ something that hap- 
pened five minutes ago, that is matter of fact ; and, at 
the same time, it expresses a relation between the event 
remembered and the present time. It is wholly incon- 
ceivable to me that the event did not happen, so that my 
assurance respecting it is as strong as that which I have 
respecting any other necessary truth. In fact, the man is 
either very wise or very virtuous, or very lucky, perhaps 
all three, who has gone through life without accumulating 
a store of such necessary beliefs, which he would give a 
good deal to be able to disbelieve. 

It would be beside the mark to discuss the matter fur- 

^ Hume, however, expressly includes the " records of our memory" 
among his matters of fact. — (lY. p. 33.) 




118 , HUME. [chap. 

tlier on the present occasion. It is sufficient to point out 
tliat, whatever may be the difference between mathemat- 
ical and other truths, they do not justify Hume's state- 
ment. And it is, at any rate, impossible to prove that 
the cogency of mathematical first principles is due to any- 
thing more than these circumstances ; that the experiences 
with which they are concerned are among the first which 
arise in the mind ; that they are so incessantly repeated as 
to justify us, according to the ordinary laws of ideation, 
in expecting that the associations which they form will be 
of extreme tenacity ; while the fact, that the expectations 
based upon them are always verified, finishes the process 
of weldino- them tog-ether. 

Thus, if the axioms of mathematics are innate, nature 
would seem to have taken unnecessary trouble ; since the 
ordinary process of association appears to be amply suffi- 
cient to confer upon them all the universality and necessity 
which they actually possess. 

Whatever needless admissions Hume may have made 
respecting other necessary truths, he is quite clear about 
the axiom of causation, " That whatever event has a be- 
ginning must have a cause ;" whether and in what sense 
it is a necessary truth ; and, that question being decided, 
whence it is derived. 

AVith respect to the first question, Hume denies that it 
is a necessary truth, in the sense that we are unable to 
conceive the contrary. The evidence by which he sup- 
ports this conclusion in the Inquiry^ however, is not strict- 
ly relevant to the issue. 

" ]S'o object ever discovers, by the qualities which appear 
to the senses, either the cause which produced it, or the ef- 
fects which will arise from it ; nor can our reason, unassist- 



VI.] CAUSE AND EFFECT. 119 

ed by experience, ever draw any inference concerning real 
existence and matter of fact." — (lY. p. 35.) 



Abundant illustrations are given of this assertion, which, 
indeed, cannot be seriously doubted ; but it does not fol- 
low that, because we are totally unable to say what cause 
preceded, or what effect will succeed, any event, we do 
not necessarily suppose that the event had a cause and 
will be succeeded by an effect. The scientific investigator 
who notes a new phenomenon may be utterly ignorant 
of its cause, but he will, without hesitation, seek for that 
cause. If you ask him why he does so, he will probably 
say that it must have had a cause ; and thereby imply 
that his belief in causation is a necessary belief. 

In the Treatise Hume, indeed, takes the bull by the 
horns : 

"... as all distinct ideas are separable from each other, 
and as the ideas of cause and effect are evidently distinct, 
'twill be easy for us to conceive any object to be non-existent 
this moment and existent the next, without conjoining to it 
the distinct idea of a cause or productive principle." — (I. p. 

111.) 

If Hume had been content to state what he believes 
to be matter of fact, and had abstained from giving su- 
perfluous reasons for that which is susceptible of being 
proved or disproved only by personal experience, his po- 
sition would have been stronger. For it seems clear that, 
on the ground of observation, he is quite right. Any 
man who lets his fancy run riot in a waking dream may 
experience the existence at one moment, and the non-ex- 
istence at the next, of phenomena which suggest no con- 
nexion of cause and effect. Not only so, but it is notori- 
ous that, to the unthinking mass of mankind, nine-tenths 



120 HUME. [chap. 

of the facts of life do not suggest the relation of cause 
and effect ; and they practically deny the existence of any 
such relation by attributing them to chance. Few gam- 
blers but would stare if they were told that the falling of 
a die on a particular face is as much the effect of a defi- 
nite cause as the fact of its falling ; it is a proverb that 
" the wind bloweth where it listeth ;" and even thoughtful 
men usually receive with surprise the suggestion, that the 
form of the crest of every wave that breaks, wind driven, 
on the sea-shore, and the direction of every particle of 
foam that flies before the gale, are the exact effects of def- 
inite causes ; and, as such, must be capable of being deter- 
mined, deductively, from the laws of motion and the prop- 
erties of air and water. So, again, there are large num- 
bers of highly intelligent persons who rather pride them- 
selves on their fixed belief that our volitions have no 
cause ; or that the will causes itself, which is either the 
same thing, or a contradiction in terms. 

Hume's argument in support of what appears to be a 
true proposition, however, is of the circular sort, for the 
major premiss, that all distinct ideas are separable in 
thought, assumes the question at issue. 

But the question whether the idea of causation is nec- 
essary or not, is really of very little importance. For, to 
say that an idea is necessary is simply to affirm that we 
cannot conceive the contrary ; and the fact that we cannot 
conceive the contrary of any belief may be a presumption, 
but is certainly no proof of its truth. 

In the well-known experiment of touching a single 
round object, such as a marble, with crossed fingers, it 
is utterly impossible to conceive that w^e have not two 
round objects under them ; and, though light is undoubt- 
edly a mere sensation arising in the brain, it is utterly 



yl] cause and effect. 121 

impossible to conceive that it is not outside tlie retina. 
In the same wa}^, he who touches anything with a rod, 
not only is irresistibly led to believe that the sensation of 
contact is at the end of the rod, but is utterly incapable 
of conceiving that this sensation is really in his head. 
Yet that which is inconceivable is manifestly true in all 
these cases. The beliefs and the unbeliefs are alike nec- 
essary, and alike erroneous. 

It is commonly urged that the axiom of causation can- 
not be derived from experience, because experience only 
proves that many things have causes, whereas the axi- 
om declares that all things have causes. The syllogism, 
*' many things which come into existence have causes, A 
has come into existence : therefore A had a cause," is ob- 
viously fallacious, if A is not previously shown to be one 
of the " many things." And this objection is perfectly 
sound so far as it goes. The axiom of causation cannot 
possibly be deduced from any general proposition which 
simply embodies experience. But it does not follow that 
the belief, or expectation, expressed by the axiom, is not 
a product of experience, generated antecedently to, and al- 
together independently of, the logically unjustifiable lan- 
guage in which we express it. 

In fact, the axiom of causation resembles all other be- 
liefs of expectation in being the verbal symbol of a purely 
automatic act of the mind, which is altogether extra-log- 
ical, and would be illogical, if it were not constantly veri- 
fied by experience. Experience, as we have seen, stores 
up memories ; memories generate expectations or beliefs 
— why they do so may be explained hereafter by proper 
investigation of cerebral physiology. But, to seek for the 
reason of the facts in the verbal symbols by which they 
are expressed, and to be astonished that it is not to be 



122 HUME. [chap. 

found there, is surely singular ; and what Hume did was 
to turn attention from the verbal proposition to the psy- 
chical fact of which it is the symbol. 

" When any natural object or event is presented, it is im- 
possible for us, by any sagacity or penetration, to discover, or 
even conjecture, without experience, what event will result 
from it, or to carry our foresight beyond that object, whicli 
is immediately present to the memory and senses. Even af- 
ter one instance or experiment, where w^e have observed a 
particular event to follow upon another, Ave are not entitled 
to form a general rule, or foretell what will hapjoen in like 
cases; it being justly esteemed an unpardonable temerity to 
judge of the whole course of nature from one single experi- 
ment, however accurate or certain. But when one particular 
SjDecies of events has always, in all instances, been conjoined 
with another, w^e make no longer any scruple of foretelling 
one upon the appearance of the other, and of employing that 
reasoning which can alone assure us of any matter of fact or 
existence. We then call the one object Cause^ the other Effect 
We suppose that there is some connexion between them: 
some power in the one, by which it infallibly produces the 
other, and operates with the greatest certainty and strongest 
necessity. . . . But there is nothing in a number of instances, 
different from every single instance, which is supposed to be 
exactly similar ; except only, that after a repetition of simi- 
lar instances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appear- 
ance of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to be- 
lieve that it will exist. . . . The first time a man saw the 
communication of motion by impulse, as by the shock of two 
billiard balls, he could not pronounce that the one event was 
connected^ but only that it was conjoined^ with the other. Af- 
ter he has observed several instances of this nature, he then 
pronounces them to be connected. What alteration has hap- 
pened to give rise to this new idea of connexion ! Nothing 
but that he now feels these events to be connected in his im- 



yl] the logic of causation. 123 

agination, and can readily foresee the existence of the one 
from the appearance of the other. "When we say, therefore, 
that one object is connected with another, we mean only that 
they have acquired a connexion in our thought, and give rise 
to this inference, by which they become proofs of each oth- 
er's existence : a conclusion which is somewhat extraordi- 
nary, but which seems founded on sufficient evidence." — (IV. 
pp.87— 89.) 

In the fifteenth section of the third part of the Treatise^ 
under the head of the Rules hy tvhich to Judge of Causes 
and Effects^ Iluine gives a sketch of the method of allo- 
cating effects to their causes, upon which, so far as I am 
aware, no improvement was made down to the time of the 
publication of Mill's Logic, Of MilFs four methods, that 
of agreement is indicated in the following passage : — 

"... where several different objects produce the same ef- 
fect, it must be by means of some quality which we discover 
to be common amongst them. For as like effects imply like 
causes, we must always ascribe the causation to the circum- 
stance wherein wx discover the resemblance.'" — (I. p. 229.) 

Next, the foundation of the method of difference is 
stated : — 

"The difference in the effects of two resembling objects 
must proceed from that particular in which they differ. 
For, as like causes always produce like effects, when in any 
instance we find our expectation to be disappointed, we must 
conclude that this irregularity proceeds from some difference 
in the causes." — (I. p. 230.) 

In the succeeding paragraph the method of concomitant 
variations is foreshadowed. 

"When any object increases or diminishes with the in- 
crease or diminution of the cause, 'tis to be regarded as a 
6* 



124 HUME. [chap. 

compounded eiFect, derived from the union of the several 
different effects which arise from the several different parts 
of the cause. The absence or presence of one part of the 
cause is here supposed to be always attended with the ab- 
sence or presence of a proportionable part of the effect. 
This constant conjunction sufficiently proves that the one 
part is the cause of the other. We must, however, beware 
not to draw such a conclusion from a few experiments." — (I. 
p. 230.) 

Lastly, the following rule, though awkwardly stated, 
contains a suggestion of the method of residues : — 

"... an object which exists for any time in its full perfec- 
tion without any effect, is not the sole cause of that effect, 
but requires to be assisted by some other principle, which 
may forward its influence and operation. For as like effects 
necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous time 
and place, their separation for a moment shows that these 
causes are not complete ones." — (I. p. 230.) 

In addition to the bare notion of necessary connexion 
between the cause and its effect, we undoubtedly find in 
our minds the idea of something resident in the cause 
which, as we say, produces the effect, and we call this 
something Force, Power, or Energy. Hume explains Force 
and Power as the results of the association with inanimate 
causes of the feelings of endeavour or resistance which we 
experience, when our bodies give rise to, or resist, motion. 

If I throw a ball, I have a sense of effort which ends 
when the ball leaves my hand ; and, if I catch a ball, I 
have a sense of resistance which comes to an end with 
the quiescence of the ball. In the former case, there is a 
strong suggestion of something having gone from myself 
into the ball ; in the latter, of something having been re- 
ceived from the ball. Let any one hold a piece of iron 



VI.] FORCE, POWER AND ENERGY. 125 

near a strong magnet, and the feeling that the magnet en- 
deavours to pull the iron one way in the same manner as 
he endeavours to pull it in the opposite direction, is very 
strong. 

As Hume says : — 

'' No animal can put external bodies in motion without the 
sentiment of a nisus^ov endeavour; and every animal has a 
sentiment or feeling from the stroke or blow of an external 
object that is in motion. These sensations, which are merely 
animal, and from which we can, a 2yTiori, draw no inference, 
we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to suppose 
that they have some such feelings whenever they transfer or 
receive motion." — (lY. p. 91, note.) 

It is obviously, however, an absurdity not less gross 
than that of supposing the sensation of warmth to exist 
in a fire, to imagine that the subjective sensation of effort 
or resistance in ourselves can be present in external ob- 
jects, when they stand in the relation of causes to other 
objects. 

To the argument, that we have a right to suppose the 
relation of cause and effect to contain somethino* more 
than invariable succession, because, when we ourselves act 
as causes, or in volition, we are conscious of exerting pow- 
er ; Hume replies, that we know nothing of the feeling 
we call power except as effort or resistance ; and that we 
have not the slightest means of knowing whether it has 
anything to do with the production of bodily motion or 
mental changes. And he points out, as Descartes and 
Spinoza had done before him, that when voluntary motion 
takes place, that which we will is not the immediate con- 
sequence of the act of volition, but something which is 
separated from it by a long chain of causes and effects. 
If the will is the cause of the movement of a limb, it can 



126 HUME. [chap. 

be so only in the sense that the guard who gives the order 
to go on, is the cause of the transport of a train from one 
station to another. 

" We learn from anatomy, that the immediate object of 
power in voluntary motion is not the member itself which is 
moved, but certain muscles and nerves and animal spirits, 
and perhaps something still more minute and unknown, 
through which the motion is successively ^Dropagated, ere it 
reach the member itself, whose motion is the immediate ob- 
ject of volition. Can there be a more certain proof that the 
power by which the whole operation is performed, so far 
from being directly and fully known by an inward sentiment 
or consciousness, is to the last degree mysterious and unin- 
telligible? Here the mind wills a certain event: Immedi- 
ately another event, unknown to ourselves, and totally dif- 
ferent from the one intended, is produced : This event pro- 
duces another equally unknown : Till at last, through a long 
succession, the desired event is produced." — (IV. p. 78.) 

A still stronger argument against ascribing an objective 
existence to force or power, on the strength of our sup- 
posed direct intuition of power in voluntary acts, may be 
urged from the unquestionable fact, that we do not know, 
and cannot know, that volition does cause corporeal mo- 
tion ; while there is a great deal to be said in favour of 
the view that it is no cause, but merely a concomitant of 
that motion. But the nature of volition will be more 
fitly considered hereafter. 



yii.] ORDER OF NATURE : MIKACLES. 127 



CHAPTER VII. 

ORDER OF NATURE : MIRACLES. 

If our beliefs of expectation are based on our beliefs of 
memory, and anticipation is only inverted recollection, it 
necessarily follows that every belief of expectation implies 
tbe belief that the future will have a certain resemblance 
to the past. From the first hour of experience, onwards, 
this belief is constantly being verified, until old age is in- 
clined to suspect that experience has nothing new to offer. 
And when the experience of generation after generation 
is recorded, and a single book tells us more than Methuse- 
lah could have learned, had he spent every waking hour 
of his thousand years in learning ; when apparent disor- 
ders are found to be only the recurrent pulses of a slow 
working order, and the wonder of a year becomes the 
commonplace of a century ; when repeated and minute ex- 
amination never reveals a break in the chain of causes and 
effects ; and the whole edifice of practical life is built 
upon our faith in its continuity ; the belief that that chain 
has never been broken and will never be broken, becomes 
one of the strongest and most justifiable of human convic- 
tions. And it must be admitted to be a reasonable re- 
quest, if we ask those who would have us put faith in the 
actual occurrence of interruptions of that order, to pro- 



128 HUME. [chap. 

diice evidence in favour of their view, not only equal, but 
superior, in weiglit to that which leads us to adopt ours. 

This is the essential argument of Hume's famous dis- 
quisition upon miracles ; and it may safely be declared to 
be irrefragable. But it must be admitted that Hume has 
surrounded the kernel of his essay with a shell of very 
doubtful value. 

The first step in this, as in all other discussions, is to 
come to a clear understandino* as to the meanins: of the 
terms employed. Argumentation whether miracles are 
possible, and, if possible, credible, is mere beating the air 
until the arguers have agreed what they mean by the word 
" miracles." 

Hume, with less than his usual perspicuity, but in ac- 
cordance with a common practice of believers in the mi- 
raculous, defines a miracle as a " violation of the laws of 
nature," or as "a transgression of a law of nature by a 
particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of 
some invisible agent." 

There must, he says, — 

" be an uniform experience against every miraculous event, 
otherwise the event would not merit that appellation. And 
as an uniform experience amounts to a proof, there is here a 
direct and full proof, from the nature of the fact, against the 
existence of any miracle ; nor can such a proof be destroyed 
or the miracle rendered credible but by an opposite proof 
"Which is superior."~(IY. p. 134.) 

Every one of these dicta appears to be open to serious 
objection. 

The word *^ miracle" — miraculum — in its primitive 
and legitimate sense, simply means something wonderful. 

Cicero applies it as readily to the fancies of philos- 
ophers, " Portenta et miracula philosophorum somnian- 



VII.] ORDER OF NATURE : MIRACLES. 129 

tiura," as we do to the prodigies of priests. And the 
source of the wonder which a miracle excites is the belief, 
on the part of those who w^itness it, that it transcends or 
contradicts ordinary experience. 

The definition of a miracle as a "violation of the laws 
of nature" is, in reality, an employment of language 
which, on the face of the matter, cannot be justified. For 
"nature" means neither more nor less than that which 
is ; the sum of phenomena presented to our experience ; 
the totality of events past, present, and to come. Every 
event must be taken to be a part of nature, until proof to 
the contrary is supplied. And such proof is, from the 
nature of the case, impossible. 

Hume asks : — 

" Why is it more than probable that all men must die : 
that lead cannot of itself remain suspended in the air : that 
fire consumes wood and is extinguished by water ; unless it 
be that these events are found agreeable to the laws of nat- 
ure, and there is required a violation of those laws, or, in 
other words, a miracle, to prevent them ?" — (IV. p. 133.) 

But the reply is obvious ; not one of these events is 
" more than probable ;" though the probability may reach 
such a very high degree that, in ordinary language, we 
are justified in saying that the opposite events are impos- 
sible. Calhng our often verified experience a " law of 
nature" adds nothing to its value, nor in the slightest 
degree increases any probability that it will be verified 
again, which may arise out of the fact of its frequent 
verification. 

If a piece of lead were to remain suspended of itself in 
the air, the occurrence would be a " miracle," in the sense 
of a wonderful event, indeed ; but no one trained in the 



130 HUME. [chap. 

methods of science would imagine that any law of nature 
was really violated thereby. He would simply set to 
work to investigate the conditions under which so highly 
unexpected an occurrence took place, and thereby enlarge 
his experience and modify his hitherto unduly narrow con- 
ception of the laws of nature. 

The alternative definition, that a miracle is " a trans- 
gression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the 
Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent'' 
(IV. p. 134,720^^), is still less defensible. For a vast num- 
ber of miracles have professedly been worked, neither by 
the Deity, nor by any invisible agent ; but by Beelzebub 
and his compeers, or by very visible men. 

Moreover, not to repeat what has been said respecting 
the absurdity of supposing that something which occurs 
is a transgression of laws, our only knowledge of which is 
derived from the observation of that which occurs ; upon 
what sort of evidence can we be justified in concluding 
that a given event is the effect of a particular volition of 
the Deity, or of the interposition of some invisible (that 
is, unperceivable) agent? It may be so, but how is the as- 
sertion that it is so to be tested ? If it be said that the 
event exceeds the pOAver of natural causes, what can jus- 
tify such a saying ? The day-fly has better grounds for 
calling a thunderstorm supernatural, than has man, with 
his experience of an infinitesimal fraction of duration, to 
say that the most astonishing event that can be imagined 
is beyond the scope of natural causes. 

*' Whatever is intelligible and can be distinctly conceived, 
implies no contradiction, and can never be proved false by 
any demonstration, argument, or abstract reasoning a priorV^ 
—(IV. p. 44.) 



vil] ORDEK of NATUKE: MIRACLES. 131 

So wrote Hume, with perfect justice, in his Sceptical 
Doubts, But a miracle, in the sense of a sudden and 
complete change in the customary order of nature, is in- 
telligible, can be distinctly conceived, implies no contra- 
diction ; and, therefore, according to Hume's own show- 
ing, cannot be proved false by any demonstrative argu- 
ment. 

Nevertheless, in diametrical contradiction to his own 
principles, Hume says elsewhere : — 

'' It is a miracle that a dead man should come to life : be- 
cause that lias never been observed in any age or country." — 
(IV. p. 134.) 

That is to say, there is an uniform experience against 
such an event, and therefore, if it occurs, it is a violation 
of the laws of nature. Or, to put the argument in its 
naked absurdity, that which never has happened never can 
happen, without a violation of the laws of nature. In 
truth, if a dead man did come to life, the fact would be 
evidence, not that any law of nature had been violated, 
but that those laws, even when they express the results of 
a very long and uniform experience, are necessarily based 
on incomplete knowledge, and are to be held only as 
grounds of more or less justifiable expectation. 

To sum up, the definition of a miracle as a suspension 
or a contravention of the order of Nature is self-contra- 
dictory, because all we know of the order of Nature is 
derived from our observation of the course of events of 
which the so-called miracle is a part. On the other hand, 
no event is too extraordinary to be impossible ; and, there- 
fore, if by the term miracles we mean only " extremely 
wonderful events," there can be no just ground for deny- 
ing the possibility of their occurrence. 



132 HUME. [chap: 

But when we turn from the question of the possibility 
of miracles, however they may be defined, in the abstract, 
to that respecting the grounds upon which we are justi- 
fied in believing any particular miracle, Hume's arguments 
have a very different value, for they resolve themselves 
into a simple statement of the dictates of common sense 
— which may be expressed in this canon : the more a 
statement of fact conflicts with previous experience, the 
more complete must be the evidence which is to justify 
us in believing it. It is upon this principle that every 
one carries on the business of common life. If a man 
tells me he saw a piebald horse in Piccadilly, I believe 
him without hesitation. The thing itself is likely enough, 
and there is no imaginable motive for his deceiving me. 
But if the same person tells me he observed a zebra there, 
I might hesitate a little about accepting his testimony, un- 
less I were well satisfied, not only as to his previous ac- 
quaintance with zebras, but as to his powers and opportu- 
nities of observation in the present case. If, however, my 
informant assured me that he beheld a centaur trotting 
down that famous thoroughfare, I should emphatically de- 
cline to credit his statement ; and this even if he were the 
most saintly of men and ready to suffer martyrdom in 
support of his belief. In such a case, I could, of course, 
entertain no doubt of the good faith of the witness ; it 
would be only his competency, which unfortunately has 
very little to do with good faith or intensity of convic- 
tion, which I should presume to call in question. 

Indeed, I hardly know what testimony would satisfy 
me of the existence of a live centaur. To put an ex- 
treme case, suppose the late Johannes MuUer, of Berlin, 
the greatest anatomist and physiologist among my con- 
temporaries, had barely affirmed he had seen a live cen- 



til] order of nature : MIRACLES. 133 

taur, I should certainly have been staggered by the weight 
of an assertion coming from such an authority. But 1 
could have got no further than a suspension of judgment. 
For, on the whole, it would have been more probable that 
even he had fallen into some error of interpretation of the 
facts which came under his observation, than that such an 
animal as a centaur really existed. And nothing short of 
a careful monograph, by a highly competent investigator, 
accompanied by figures and measurements of all the most 
important parts of a centaur, put forth under circum- 
stances which could leave no doubt that falsification or 
misinterpretation would meet with immediate exposure, 
could possibly enable a man of science to feel that he act- 
ed conscientiously in expressing his belief in the exist- 
ence of a centaur on the evidence of testimonv. 

This hesitation about admitting the existence of such an 
animal as a centaur, be it observed, does not deserve re- 
proach, as scepticism, but moderate praise, as mere scien- 
tific good faith. It need not imply, and it does not, so 
far as I am concerned, any a priori hypothesis that a cen- 
taur is an impossible animal ; or that his existence, if he 
did exist, would violate the laws of nature. Indubitably, 
the organisation of a centaur presents a variety of practical 
difficulties to an anatomist and physiologist ; and a good 
many of those generalisations of our present experience, 
w^hich wo are pleased to call laws of nature, would be upset 
by the appearance of such an animal, so that we should 
have to frame new laws to cover our extended experience. 
Every wise man will admit that the possibilities of nature 
are infinite, and include centaurs ; but he will not the less 
feel it his duty to hold fast, for the present, by the dictum 
of Lucretius, " Nam certe ex vivo Centauri non fit imago," 
and to cast the entire burthen of proof, that centaurs exist. 



134 HUME. [chap 

on the slioulders of those who ask him to believe the 
statement. 

Judged by the canons either of common sense or of 
science, which are indeed one and the same, all " miracles " 
are centaurs, or they would not be miracles ; and men of 
sense and science will deal with them on the same princi- 
ples. No one who wishes to keep well within the limits 
of that which he has a right to assert will affirm that it is 
impossible that the sun and moon should ever have been 
made to appear to stand still in the valley of Ajalon ; or 
that the walls of a citv should have fallen down at a trum- 
pet blast ; or that water was turned into wine ; because 
such events are contrary to uniform experience and violate 
laws of nature. For aught he can prove to the contrary, 
such events may appear in the order of nature to-morrow. 
But common sense and common honesty alike oblige him 
to demand from those who would have him believe in the 
actual occurrence of such events, evidence of a cogency 
proportionate to their departure from probability ; evi- 
dence at least as strong as that which the man who says 
he has seen a centaur is bound to produce, unless he is 
content to be thought either more than credulous or less 
than honest. 

But are there any miracles on record, the evidence for 
which fulfils the plain and simple requirements alike of 
elementary logic and of elementary morality ? 

Hume answers this question without the smallest hesita- 
tion, and with all the authority of a historical specialist : — . 

" There is not to be found, in all history, any miracle at- 
tested by a sufficient number of men, of such unquestioned 
goodness, education, and learning, as to secure us against all 
delusion in themselves ; of such undoubted integrity, as to 
place them beyond all suspicion of any design to deceive oth- 



VII.] ORDER OF NATURE : MIRACLES. 135 

ers ; of such credit and reputation in the eyes of mankind, 
as to have a great deal to lose in case of their being detected 
in any falsehood ; and at the same time attesting facts, per- 
formed in such a public manner, and in so celebrated a part 
of the world, as to render the detection unavoidable : All 
which circumstances are requisite to give us a full assurance 
of the testimony of men." — (IV. p. 135.) 

These are grave assertions, but they are least likely to 
be challenged by those who have made it their business to 
weigh evidence and to give their decision under a due 
sense of the moral responsibility which they incur in so 
doing. 

It is probable that few persons who proclaim their be- 
lief in miracles have considered what would be necessary 
to justify that belief in the case of a professed modern 
miracle-worker. Suppose, for example, it is affirmed that 
A.B. died, and that CD. brought him to life again. Let 
it be granted that A.B. and CD. are persons of unim- 
peachable honour and veracity; that CD. is the next heir 
to A.B.'s estate, and therefore had a strong motive for 
not bringing him to life again ; and that all A.B.'s rela- 
tions, respectable persons who bore him a strong affection, 
or had otherwise an interest in his being alive, declared that 
they saw him die. Furthermore, let A.B. be seen after 
his recovery by all his friends and neighbours, and let his 
and their depositions, that he is now alive, be taken down 
before a magistrate of known integrity and acuteness : 
would all this constitute even presumptive evidence that 
CD. had worked a miracle ? Unquestionably not. For 
the most important link in the whole chain of evidence is 
wanting, and that is the proof that A.B. was really dead. 
The evidence of ordinary observers on such a point as this 
is absolutely worthless. And even medical evidence, un- 



136 HUME. [chap. 

less the physician is a person of unusual knowledge and 
skill, may have little more value. Unless careful therm o- 
metric observation proves that the temperature has sunk 
below a certain point ; unless the cadaveric stiffening of 
the muscles has become well established ; all the ordina- 
ry signs of death may be fallacious, and the intervention 
of CD. may have had no more to do with A.B.'s restora- 
tion to life than any other fortuitously coincident event. 

It may be said that such a coincidence would be more 
wonderful than the miracle itself. Nevertheless history 
acquaints us with coincidences as marvellous. 

On the 19th of February, 1842, Sir Robert Sale held 
Jellalabad with a small English force, and, daily expecting 
attack from an overwhelming force of Afghans, had spent 
three months in incessantly labouring to improve the forti- 
fications of the town. Akbar Khan had approached with- 
in a few miles, and an onslaught of his army was supposed 
to be imminent. That morning an earthquake — 

*' nearly destroyed the town, threw down the greater part of 
the parapets, the central gate with the adjoining bastions, 
and a part of the new bastion which flanked it. Three oth- 
er bastions were also nearly destroyed, whilst several large 
breaches were made in the curtains, and the Peshawair side, 
eighty feet long, w^as quite practicable, the ditch being filled, 
and the descent easy. Thus in one moment the labours of 
three months were in a great measure destroyed." ^ 

If Akbar Khan had happened to give orders for an as- 
sault in the early morning of the 19th of February, what 
good follower of the Prophet could have doubted that 
Allah had lent his aid? As it chanced, however, Mahome- 

^ Report of Captain Broadfoot, garrison engineer, quoted in Kaye's 
Afghanktan. 



VII.] ORDER OF NATUEE : MIRACLES. 137 

tan faith in the miraculous took another turn ; for the en- 
ergetic defenders of the post had repaired the damage by 
the end of the month ; and the enemy, finding no signs of 
the earthquake when they invested the place, ascribed the 
supposed immunity of Jellalabad to English witchcraft. 

But the conditions of belief do not vary with time or 
place; and, if it is undeniable that evidence of so com- 
plete and weighty a character is needed, at the present 
time, for the establishment of the occurrence of such a 
wonder as that supposed, it has always been needful. 
Those who study the extant records of miracles with due 
attention will judge for themselves how far it has ever 
been supplied. 



138 HUME. [CHAP. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THEISM ; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 

Hume seems to have had but two hearty dislikes : the one 
to the English nation, and the other to all the professors 
of dogmatic theology. The one aversion he vented only 
privately to his friends ; but, if he is ever bitter in his 
public utterances, it is against priests^ in general and theo- 
logical enthusiasts and fanatics in particular; if he ever 
seems insincere, it is when he wishes to insult theolo2fians 
by a parade of sarcastic respect. One need go no further 
than the peroration of the Essay on Miracles for a char- 
acteristic illustration. 

*' I am the better pleased with the method of reasoning 
here delivered, as I think it may serve to confound those 
dangerous friends and disguised enemies to the Christian re- 
ligion who have undertaken to defend it by the principles of 
human reason. Our most holy religion is founded on Faith, 
not on reason, and it is a sure method of exposing it to put 

^ In a note to the Essay on Superstition and Enthusiasm, Hume is 
careful to define what he means by this term. "By priests I under^ 
stand only the pretenders to power and dominion, and to a superior 
sanctity of character, distinct from virtue and good morals. These 
are very different from clergymen^ who are set apart to the care of 
sacred matters, and the conducting our public devotions with greater 
decency and order. There is no rank of men more to be respected 
than the latter."— (III. p. 83.) 



Tin.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 139 

it to such a trial as it is by no means fitted to endure . . . 
the Christian reUgion not only was at first attended with 
miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any rea- 
sonable person without one. Mere reason is insufficient to 
convince us of its veracity : And whoever is moved by Faith 
to assent to it, is conscious of a continual miracle in his own 
person, which subverts all the principles of his understand- 
ing, and gives him a determination to believe what is most 
contrary to custom and experience." — (IV. pp. 153, 154.) 

It is obvious that, here and elsewhere, Hume, adopting 
a popular confusion of ideas, uses religion as the equiva- 
lent of dogmatic theology; and, therefore, he says, with 
perfect justice, that '' religion is nothing but a species of 
philosophy" (iv. p. I7l). Here no doubt lies the root of 
his antagonism. The quarrels of theologians and philoso- 
phers have not been about religion, but about philosophy ; 
and philosophers not unfrequently seem to entertain the 
same feeling towards theologians that sportsmen cherish 
towards poachers. " There cannot be two passions more 
nearly resembling each other than hunting and philoso- 
phy," says Hume. And philosophic hunters are given to 
think that, while they pursue truth for its own sake, out 
of pure love for the chase (perhaps mingled with a little 
human weakness to be thought good shots), and by open 
and legitimate methods ; their theological competitors too 
often care merely to supply the market of establishments ; 
and disdain neither the aid of the snares of superstition, 
nor the cover of the darkness of ip;norance. 

Unless some foundation was given for this impression 
by the theological writers whose works had fallen in 
Hume's way, it is difficult to account for the depth of 
feeling which so good-natured a man manifests on the 
subject. 

7 



140 HUME. [chap. 

Thus lie writes in the Natural History of Religion^ 
with quite unusual acerbity: — 

" The chief objection to it [the ancient heathen mytholo- 
gy] with regard to this planet is, that it is not ascertained 
by any just reason or authority. The ancient tradition in- 
sisted on by heathen priests and theologers is but a weak 
foundation : and transmitted also such a number of contra- 
dictory reports, supported all of them by equal authority, 
that it became absolutely impossible to fix a preference 
among them. A few volumes, therefore, must contain all 
the polemical writings of pagan priests : And their whole 
theology must consist more of traditional stories and super- 
stitious practices than of philosopliical argument and con- 
troversy. 

"But where theism forms the fundamental principle of 
any jjopular religion^ that tenet is so conformable to sound 
reason, that philosophy is apt to incorporate itself with such 
a system of theology. And if the other dogmas of that sys- 
tem be contained in a sacred book, such as the Alcoran, or 
be determined by any visible authority, like that of the Eo- 
man pontiff, speculative reasoners naturally carry on their 
assent, and embrace a theory, which has been instilled into 
them by their earliest education, and which also possesses 
some degree of consistence and uniformity. But as these 
appearances are sure, all of them, to prove deceitful, philoso- 
phy will very soon find herself very unequally yoked with 
her new associate ; and instead of regulating each principle, 
as they advance together, she is at every turn perverted to 
serve the purposes of superstition. For besides the unavoid- 
^able incokerences, wdiich must be reconciled and adjusted, 
one may safely afiSrm, that all popular theology, especially 
the scholastic, has a kind of appetite for absurdity and con- 
tradiction. If that theology went not beyond reason anc] 
common sense, her doctrines would appear too easy and fa- 
miliar. Amazement must of necessity be raised: Mystery 



Tin.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 141 

affected : Darkness and obscurity soiiglit after : And a foun- 
dation of merit afforded to the devout votaries, who desire 
an opportunity of subduing their rebellious reason by the 
belief of the most unintelligible sophisms. 

"Ecclesiastical history sufficiently confirms these reffec- 
tions. When a controversy is started, some people always 
l)retend with certainty to foretell the issue. Whichever 
opinion, say they, is most contrary to plain reason is sure to 
prevail; even when the general interest of the system re- 
quires not that decision. Though the reproach of heresy 
may, for some time, be bandied about among the disputants, 
it always rests at last on the side of reason. Any one, it is 
pretended, that has but learning enough of this kind to 
know the definition of Arian, Pelagian^ Erastian^ Socinian^ 
Scibellian^ Eutycliian., Nestorian^ Monothelite^ &c., not to men- 
tion Protestant, whose fate is yet uncertain, will be convinced 
of the truth of this observation. It is thus a system becomes 
absurd in the end, merely from its being reasonable and 
philosophical in the beginning. 

" To oppose the torrent of scholastic religion by such fee- 
ble maxims as these, that it is impossible for the same thing to 
't)e and- not to 5^, that the whole is greater than a part^ that two 
and three malte Jive^ is pretending to stop the ocean with a 
buh'ush. Will you set up profane reason against sacred mys- 
tery? No punishment is great enough for your impiety. 
And the same fires which were kindled for heretics will 
serve also for the destruction of philosophers." — (lY. pp. 481 
—3.) ^-^ 

Holding these opinions respecting the recognised sys- 
tems of theology and their professors, Hume, nevertheless, 
seems to have had a theology of his own; that is to say, 
he seems to have thought (though, as will appear, it is 
needful for an expositor of his opinions to speak very 
guardedly on this point) that the problem of theism is 
susceptible of scientific treatment, with something moro 



142 HUME. [chap. 

than a negative result. His opinions are to be gathered 
from the eleventh section of the Inquiry (1748); from 
the Dialogues concerning Natural Religion^ which were 
written at least as early as 1751, though not published till 
after his death ; and from the Natural History of .Relig- 
ion^ published in 1757. 

In the first two pieces, the reader is left to judge for 
himself which interlocutor in the dialogue represents the 
thoughts of the author ; but, for the views put forward in 
the last, Hume accepts the responsibility. Unfortunately, 
this essay deals almost wholly with the historical develop- 
ment of theological ideas ; and, on the question of the phil- 
osophical foundation of theology, does little more than ex- 
press the writer's contentment with the argument from 
desio^n. 

" The whole frame of nature bespeaks an Intelligent Au- 
thor; and no rational inquirer can, after serious reflection, 
suspend his belief a moment with regard to the primary 
principles of genuine Theism and Religion." — (IV. p. 435.) 

" Were men led into the apprehension of invisible, intelli- 
gent power by a contemplation of the works of nature, they 
could never possibly entertain any conception but of one 
single being, who bestowed existence and order on this vast 
machine, and adjusted all its parts according to one regular 
plan or connected system. For though, to persons of a cer- 
tain turn of mind, it may not appear altogether absurd that 
several independent beings, endowed with superior wisdom, 
might conspire in the contrivance and execution of one reg- 
ular plan, yet is this a merely arbitrary supposition, which, 
even if allowed possible, must be confessed neither to be 
supported by probability nor necessity. All things in the 
universe are evidently of a piece. Everything is adjusted 
to everything. One design prevails throughout the whole. 
And this uniformity leads the mind to acknowledge one au- 



viil] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 143 

thor ; because the conception of different authors, without 
any distinction of attributes or operations, serves only to 
give perplexity to the imagination, without bestowing any 
satisfaction on the understanding." — (lY. p. 442.) 

Thus Hume appears to have sincerely accepted the two 
fundamental conclusions of the argument from design ; 
firstly, that a Deity exists ; and, secondly, that He pos- 
sesses attributes more or less allied to those of human 
intelligence. But, at this embryonic stage of theology, 
Hume's progress is arrested ; and, after a survey of the 
development of dogma, his " general corollary " is, that — 

" The whole is a riddle, an enigma, an inexplicable mys- 
tery. Doubt, uncertainty, suspense of judgment, appear the 
only result of our most accurate scrutiny concerning this 
subject. But such is the frailty of human reason, and such 
the irresistible contagion of opinion, that even this deliber- 
ate doubt could scarcely be upheld ; did we not enlarge our 
view, and, opposing one species of superstition to another, 
set them a quarrelling ; while we ourselves, during their fury 
and contention, happily make our escape into the calm, 
though obscure, regions of philosophy." — (IV. p. 513.) 

Thus it may be fairly presumed that Hume expresses 
his own sentiments in the words of the speech with which 
Philo concludes the Dialogues, 

"If the Vv^hole of natural theology, as some people seem to 
maintain, resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat 
ambiguous, at least undefined proposition, That the cause or 
causes of order in the universe 'pro'bahly Ijear some remote analo- 
gy to human intelligence : If this proposition be not capable 
of extension, variation, or more particular explication : If it 
afibrds no inference that affects human life or can be the 
source of any action or forbearance : And if the analogy, im- 
perfect as it is, can be carried no further than to the human 



144 HUME. [chap. 

intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance 
of probability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this 
really be the case, what can the most inquisitive, contempla- 
tive, and religious man do more than give a plain, philo- 
sophical assent to the proposition as often as it occurs, and 
believe that the arguments on which it is established exceed 
the objections which lie against it ? Some astonishment, in- 
deed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the object ; 
some melancholy from its obscurity ; some contempt of hu- 
man reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory 
with regard to so extraordinary and magnificent a question. 
But believe me, Cleanthes, the most natural sentiment which 
a w^ell-disposed mind will feel on this occasion, is a longing 
desire and expectation that Heaven would be pleased to dis- 
sipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance, by afford- 
ing some more particular revelation to mankind, and making 
discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the 
Divine object of our faith." ^ — (II. p. 547—8.) 

Such being the sum total of Hume's conclusions, it 
cannot be said that his theological burden is a heavy 
one. But, if we turn from the Natural History of Re- 
ligion^ to the Treatise^ the Inquiry^ and the DiaJogues, the 
story of what happened to the ass laden with salt, who 
took to the water, irresistibly suggests itself. Hume's 
theism, such as it is, dissolves away in the dialectic river, 

^ It is needless to quote the rest of the passage, though I cannot 
refrain from observing that the recommendation which it contains, 
that a " man of letters " should become a philosophical sceptic as 
" the first and most essential step towards being a sound believing 
Christian," though adopted and largely acted upon by many a cham- 
pion of orthodoxy in these days, is questionable in taste, if it be 
meant as a jest, and more than questionable in morality, if it is to 
be taken in earnest. To pretend that you believe any doctrine for 
no better reason than that you doubt everything else, would be dis- 
honest, if it were not preposterous. 



VIII.] THEISM ; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 145 

until notliing is left but the verbal sack in wbicli it was 
contained. 

Of the two tlieistic propositions to which Hume is com- 
mitted, the first is the affirmation of the existence of a 
God, supported by the argument from the nature of cau- 
sation. In the Dialogues, Philo, while pushing scepticism 
to its utmost limit, is nevertheless made to say that — 

*' . . . where reasonable men treat these subjects, the ques- 
tion can never be concerning the Being ^ but only the Nature, 
of the Deity. The former truth, as you will observe, is un- 
questionable and self-evident. Nothing exists without a 
cause, and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) 
we call God, and piously ascribe to him every species of per- 
fection."— (11. p. 439.) 

The expositor of Hume, who Avishes to do his work thor- 
oughly, as far as it goes, cannot bat fall into perplexity^ 

^ A perplexity wliicli is increased rather than diminished by some 
passages in a letter to Gilbert Elliot of Minto (March 10, 1751). 
Hume says, " You would perceive by the sample I have given you 
that I make Cleanthes the hero of the dialogue ; whatever you can 
think of, to strengthen that side of the argument, will be most ac- 
ceptable to me. Any propensity you imagine I have to the other 
side crept in upon me against my will ; and 'tis not long ago that I 
burned an old manuscript book, wrote before I was twenty, wdiich 
contained, page after page, the gradual progress of my thoughts on 
this head. It began with an anxious scent after arguments to con- 
firm the common opinion ; doubts stole in, dissipated, returned ; were 
again dissipated, returned again ; and it was a perpetual struggle of 
a restless imagination against inclination — perhaps against reason. 
... I could v\ish Cleanthes' argument could be so analysed as to be 
rendered quite formal and regular. The propensity of the mind to- 
wards it — unless that propensity were as strong and universal as that 
to believe in our senses and experience — will still, I am afraid, be es- 
teemed a suspicious foundation. 'Tis here I wish for your assistance. 
We must endeavour to prove that this propensity is somewhat differ- 



146 HUME. [chap. 

when he contrasts this language with that of the sections 
of the third part of the Treatise^ entitled, Why a Cause is 
Always Necessary^ and Of the Idea of Necessary Connexion, 

It is there shown, at large, that ^' every demonstration 
which has been produced for the necessity of a cause is 
fallacious and sophistical" (I. p. HI); it is affirmed that 
" there is no absolute nor metaphysical necessity that 
every beginning of existence should be attended with such 
an object" [as a cause] (I. p. 227) ; and it is roundly as- 
serted that it is " easy for us to conceive any object to be 
non-existent this moment and existent the next, without 
conjoining to it the distinct idea of a cause or productive 
principle" (I. p. 111). So far from the axiom, that what- 
ever begins to exist must have a cause of existence, being 
^' self-evident," as Philo calls it, Hume spends the greatest 
care in showing that it is nothing but the product of cus- 
tom or experience. 

And the doubt thus forced upon one, whether Philo 
ought to be taken as even, so far, Hume's mouth -piece, 
is increased when we reflect that we are dealing with an 
acute reasoner ; and that there is no difficulty in drawing 
the deduction from Hume's own definition of a cause, that 
the very phrase, a " first cause," involves a contradiction 
in terms. He lays down that, — 

" 'Tis an established axiom both in natural and moral phi- 
losophy, that an object, which exists for any time in its full 

ent from our inclination to find our own figures in the clouds, our 
faces in the moon, our passions and sentiments even in inanimate 
matter. Such an inclination may and ought to be controlled, and 
can never be a legitimate ground of assent." (Burton, I^fe^ I., p. 
331 — 3.) The picture of Hume here drawn unconsciously by his own 
hand, is unlike enough to the popular conception of him as a care- 
less sceptic loving doubt for doubt's sake. 



VIII.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 14V 

perfection without producing another, is not its sole cause ; 
but is assisted by some other principle which pushes it from 
its state of inactivity , and makes it exert that energy of which 
it was secretly possessed." — (L p. lOG.) 

Now the " first cause " is assumed to have existed from 
all eternity, up to the moment at which the universe came 
into existence. Hence it cannot be the sole cause of the 
universe ; in fact, it was no cause at all until it was " as- 
sisted by some other principle ;" consequently the so-called 
^' first cause," so far as it produces the universe, is in real- 
ity an effect of that other principle. Moreover, though, 
in the person of Philo, Hume assumes the axiom ^^ that 
whatever begins to exist must have a cause," which he de- 
nies in the Treatise^ he must have seen, for a child may see, 
that the assumption is of no real service. 

Suppose Y to be the imagined first cause and Z to be 
its effect. Let the letters of the alphabet, a, &, c, d, e, /, ^, 
in their order, represent successive moments of time, and 
let ff represent the particular moment at which the effect 
Z makes its appearance. It follows that the cause Y could 
not have existed " in its full perfection " during the time 
a — e, for if it had, then the effect Z would have come into 
existence during that time, which, by the hypothesis, it 
did not do. The cause Y, therefore, must have come into 
existence at/, and if "everything that comes into existence 
has a cause," Y must have had a cause X operating at e ; 
X, a cause W operating at d ; and so on ad infinitum.^ 

^ Kant employs substantially the same argument : — " Wlirde das 
hochste Wesen in dieser Kette der Bedingungen stehen, so wlirde es 
selbst ein Glied der Reihe derselben sein, und eben so wie die niede- 
ren Glieder, denen es vorgesetzt ist, noch fernere Untersuchungen 
wegen seines noch hoheren Grundes erfahren." — Kritik. Ed. Hart- 
enstein, p. 422. 



148 HUME. [chap. 

If the only demonstrative argument for the existence 
of a Deity, which Hume advances, thus, literally, "goes 
to water " in the solvent of his philosophy, the reasoning 
from the evidence of design does not fare much better. 
If Hume really knew of any valid reply to Philo's argu- 
ments in the following passages of the Dialogues^ he has 
dealt unfairly by the reader in concealing it : — 

'' But because I know you are not much swayed by names 
and authorities, I shall endeavour to show you, a little more 
distinctly, the inconveniences of that Anthropomorphism 
which you have embraced; and shall prove that there is 
no ground to suppose a plan of the world to be formed in 
the Divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently ar- 
ranged, in the same manner as an architect forms in his 
head the plan of a house which he intends to execute. 

*' It is not easy, I own, to see what is gained by this sup- 
position, whether we judge the matter by Reason or by Expe- 
rience. We are still obliged to mount higher, in order to find 
the cause of this cause, which you had assigned as satisfac- 
tory and conclusive. 

" If Reason (I mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries 
a priori) be not alike mute with regard to all questions con- 
cerning cause and effect, this sentence at least it will venture 
to pronounce : That a mental world, or universe of ideas, re- 
quires a cause as much as does a material world, or universe 
of objects ; and, if similar in its arrangement, must require 
a similar cause. For what is there in this subject which 
should occasion a different conclusion or inference ? In an 
abstract view, they are entirely alike ; and no difficulty at- 
tends the one supposition, which is not common to both of 
them. 

^' Again, when we will needs force Experience to pronounce 
some sentence, even on those subjects which lie beyond her 
sphere, neither can she perceive any material difference in 
this particular between these two kinds of worlds ; but finds 



Tin.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 149 

them to be governed by similar principles, and to depend 
upon an equal variety of causes in their operations. We 
have specimens in miniature of both of them. Our own 
mind resembles the one; a vegetable or animal body the 
other. Let experience, therefore, judge from these samples. 
Nothing seems more delicate, with regard to its causes, than 
thought ; and as these causes never operate in two persons 
after the same manner, so w^e never find two persons who 
think exactly alike. Nor indeed does the same person think 
exactly alike at any two different periods of time. A difi'er- 
ence of age, of the dis^^osition of his body, of w^eather, of 
food, of company, of books, of passions; any of these partic- 
ulars, or others more minute, are sufficient to alter the curi- 
ous machinery of thought, and communicate to it very dif- 
ferent movements and operations. As far as we can judge, 
vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate in their 
motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious 
adjustment of springs and principles. 

" How, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the 
cause of that Being whom you suppose the Author of Nature, 
or, according to your system of anthropomorphism, the ideal 
world in which you trace the material? Have we not the 
same reason to trace the ideal w^orld into another ideal world, 
or new intelligent principle ? But if we stop and go no 
farther; why go so far? Why not stop at the material 
world ? How can we satisfy ourselves without going on in 
infinitum f And, after all, what satisfliction is there in that 
infinite progression ? Let us remember the story of the 
Indian philosopher and his elephant. It was never more 
applicable than to the present subject. If the material 
world rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must 
rest/ipon some other; and so on without end. It were bet- 
ter, therefore, never to look beyond the present material 
world. By supposing it to contain the principle of Its order 
within itself, we really assert it to be God ; and th^ sooner 
we arrive at that Divine Being, so much the better, Yv^heu 



150 HUME. [chap. 

you go one step beyond the mundane system you only excite 
an inquisitive humour, which it is impossible ever to satisfy. 
To say that the different ideas which compose the reason 
of the Supreme Being fall into order of themselves and by 
their own natures, is really to talk without any precise mean- 
ing. If it has a meaning, I would fain know why it is not 
as good sense to say that the parts of the material world 
fall into order of themselves, and by their own nature. Can 
the one opinion be intelligible while the other is not so V 
—(II. p. 461— 4.) 

Clcanthes, in replying to Philo's discourse, says that 
it is very easy to answer his arguments; but, as not un- 
frequently happens with controversialists, he mistakes a 
reply for an answer, when he declares that — 

^'The order and arrangement of nature, the curious adjust- 
ment of final causes, the plain use and intention of every part 
and organ; all these bespeak in the clearest language one 
intelligent cause or author. The heavens and the earth join 
in the same testimony. The whole chorus of nature raises 
one hymn to the praises of its Creator." — (11. p. 465.) 

Though the rhetoric of Cleanthes may be admired, its 
irrelevancy to the point at issue must be admitted. Wan- 
dering still further into the region of declamation, he 
works himself into a passion : 

*' You alone, or almost alone, disturb this general harmony. 
You start abstruse doubts, cavils, and objections : You ask 
me what is the cause of this cause ? I know not : I care not : 
that concerns not me. I have found a Deity ; and here I 
stop my inquiry. Let those go farther who are wiser or 
more enterprising." — (11. p. 466.) 

In other words, O Cleanthes, reasoning having taken 
you as far as you want to go, you decline to advance any 



vni.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 151 

further; even thougli you fully admit that the veiy same 
reasoning forbids you to stop where you are pleased to 
cry halt ! But this is simply forcing your reason to 
abdicate in favour of your caprice. It is impossible to 
imagine that Hume, of all men in the world, could have 
rested satisfied with such an act of hio-h-treason ao-ainst 
the sovereignty of philosophy. We may rather conclude 
that the last word of the discussion, which he gives to 
Philo, is also his own. 

" If I am still to remain in utter ignorance of causes, and 
can absolutely give an explication of nothing, I shall never 
esteem it any advantage to shove off for a moment a diffi- 
culty, which, you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full 
force, recur upon me. Naturalists,^ indeed, very justly ex- 
plain particular effects by more general causes, though tliese 
general causes should remain in the end totally inexplica- 
ble ; but they never surely thought it satisfactory to explain 
a particular effect by a particular cause, which w^as no more 
to be accounted for than the effect itself. An ideal system, 
arranged of itself, without a precedent design, is not a wdilt 
more explicable than a material one, wdiich attains its order 
in a like manner; nor is there any more difficulty in the 
latter supposition than in the former." — (11. p. 466.) 

It is obvious that, if Hume had been pushed, he must 
have admitted that his opinion concerning the existence 
of a God, and of a certain remote resemblance of his intel- 
lectual nature to that of man, was an hypothesis which 
might possess more or less probability, but was incapable 
on his owm principles of any approach to demonstration. 
And to all attempts to make any practical use of his 
theism ; or to prove the existence of the attributes of 

^ Z e., Natural philosophers. 



152 HUME. [chap. 

infinite wisdom, benevolence, justice, and the like, which 
are usually ascribed to the Deity, by reason, he opposes 
a searching critical negation.^ 

The object of the speech of the imaginary Epicurean 
in the eleventh section of the Inqicir 7/, entitled Of a Par- 
ticular Providence and of a Future State, is to invert the 
argument of Bishop Butler's Analogy. 

That famous defence of theology against the a prio- 
ri scepticism of Freethinkers of the eighteenth century, 
who based their arguments on the inconsistency of the 
revealed scheme of salvation with the attributes of the 
Deity, consists, essentially, in conclusively proving that, 
from a moral point of view, Nature is at least as repre- 
hensible as orthodoxy. If you tell me, says Butler, in 
effect, that any part of revealed religion must be false 
because it is inconsistent with the divine attributes of 
justice and mercy ; I beg leave to point out to you, that 
there are undeniable natural facts which are fully open to 
the same objection. Since you admit that nature is the 
work of God, you are forced to allow that such facts are 
consistent with his attributes. Therefore, you must also 
admit, that the parallel facts in the scheme of orthodoxy 
are also consistent with them, and all your arguments to 
the contrary fall to the ground. Q.E.D. In fact, the solid 
sense of Butler left the Deism of the Freethinkers not a 
leg to stand upon. Perhaps, however, he did not remem- 
ber the wise saying that *'A man seemeth right in his 
own cause, but another cometh after and judgeth him." 
Hume's Epicurean philosopher adopts the main arguments 
of the Analogy, but unfortunately drives them home to a 

^ Hume's letter to Mure of Caldwell, containing a criticism of 
Leechman's sermon (Burton I. p. 1 63), bears strongly on this point. 



yiil] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 153 

conclusion of wliich the good Bishop would hardly have 
approved. 

" I deny a Providence, you say, and supreme governor of 
the world, who guides the course of events, and punishes the 
vicious with infamy and disappointment, and rewards the 
virtuous with honour and success in all their undertakings. 
But surely I deny not the course itself of events, which lies 
open to every one's inquiry and examination. I acknowledge 
that, in the present order of things, virtue is attended with 
more peace of mind than vice, and meets with a more favour- 
able reception from the world. I am sensible that, accordiug 
to the past experience of mankind, friendship is the chief joy 
of human life, and moderation the only source of tranquillity 
and happiness. I never balance between the virtuous and the 
vicious course of life ; but am sensible that, to a well-disposed 
mind, every advantage is on the side of the former. And 
what can you say more, allowing all your suppositions and 
reasonings ? You tell me, indeed, that this disposition of 
things proceeds from intelligence and design. But, what- 
ever it proceeds from, the disposition itself, on wliich depends 
our happiness and misery, and consequently our conduct and 
deportment in life, is still the same. It is still open for me, 
as well as you, to regulate my behaviour by my experience 
of past events. And if you affirm that, while a divine prov- 
idence is allowed, and a supreme distributive justice in the 
universe, I ought to expect some more particular reward of 
the good, and punishment of the bad, beyond the ordinary 
course of events, I here find the same fallacy which I have 
before endeavoured to detect. You persist in imagining, 
that if we grant that divine existence for which you so ear- 
nestly contend, you may safely infer consequences from it, 
and add something to the experienced order of nature, by 
arguing from the attributes which you ascribe to your gods. 
You seem not to remember that all your reasonings on this 
subject can only be drawn from effects to causes; and that 
every argument, deduced from causes to effects, must of ne- 



154 HUME. [chap. 

cessity be a gross sophism, since it is impossible for you to 
know anything of the cause, but what you have antecedently 
not inferred, but discovered to the full, in the effect. 

" But what must a philosopher think of those vain reason- 
ers who, instead of regarding the present scene of things as 
the sole object of their contemplation, so far reverse the whole 
course of nature as to render this life merely a passage to 
something further; a porch which leads to a greater and 
vastly different building; a prologue which serves only to 
introduce the piece, and give it more grace and propriety? 
Whence, do you think, can such philosophers derive their 
idea of the gods ? From their own conceit and imagination 
surely. For if they derive it from the present phenomena, 
it would never point to anytliing further, but must be exact- 
ly adjusted to them. That t]ie divinity vnaj j^ossiblf/ be en- 
dowed with attributes which we have never seen exerted; 
may be governed by principles of action which we cannot 
discover to be satisfied ; all this will freely be allowed. But 
still this is mere possibility and hypothesis. We never can 
have reason to infer any attributes or any principles of ac- 
tion in him, but so far as we know them to have been exert- 
ed and satisfied. 

^^Are tliere any marks of a distributive justice in tlie world? 
If you answer in the affirmative, I conclude that, since justice 
here exerts itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in the negative, 
I conclude that you have then no reason to ascribe justice, in 
our sense of it, to the gods. If you hold a medium between 
afl&rmation and negation, by saying that the justice of the 
gods at present exerts itself in part, but not in its full extent, 
I answer that you have no reason to give it any particular 
extent, but only so far as you see it, at 2^resent, exert itself;" 
^(lY. p. 164— G.) 

Thus, the Freethinkers said, the attributes of the Deity 
being what they are, the scheme of orthodoxy is inconsist- 
ent with them ; whereupon Butler gave the crushing re- 



Till.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 155 

ply : Agreeing with you as to the attributes of the Deity, 
nature, by its existence, proves that the things to which 
you object are quite consistent with them. To whom en- 
ters Hume's Epicurean with the remark : Then, as nature 
is our only measure of the attributes of the Deity in their 
practical manifestation, what warranty is there for suppos- 
ing that such measure is anywhere transcended ? That the 
*' other side " of nature, if there be one, is governed on dif- 
ferent principles from this side ? 

Truly on this topic silence is golden ; while speech 
reaches not even the dignity of sounding brass or tinkling 
cymbal, and is but the weary clatter of an endless logoma- 
chy. One can but suspect that Hume also had reached 
this conviction ; and that his shadowy and inconsistent 
theism was the expression of his desire to rest in a state 
of mind which distinctlv excluded neixation, while it in- 
eluded as little as possible of affirmation, respecting a prob- 
lem which he fek to be hopelessly insoluble. 

But, whatever might be the views of the philosopher as 
to the arguments for theism, the historian could have no 
doubt respecting its many-shaped existence, and the great 
part which it has played in the world. Here, then, was a 
body of natural facts to be investigated scientifically, and 
the result of Hume's inquiries is embodied in the remark- 
able essay on the Natural History of Religion. Hume an- 
ticipated the results of modern investigation in declaring 
fetishism and polytheism to be the form in which savage 
and ignorant men naturally clothe their ideas of the un- 
known influences which govern their destiny ; and they 
are polytheists rather than monotheists because, — 

"... the first ideas of religion arose, not from a contem- 
plation of the works of nature, but from a concern with re- 
gard to the events of life, and from the incessant hopes and 



156 HUME. [chap. 

fears whicli actuate the human mind ... in order to carry 
men's attention beyond the present course of things, or lead 
them into any inference concerning invisible intelligent pow- 
er, they must be actuated by some passion which prompts 
their thought and reflection, some motive which urges their 
first inquiry. But what passion shall w^e have recourse to 
for explaining an elfect of such mighty consequence ? Not 
speculative curiosity merel}^, or the pure love of trutli. Tliat 
motive is too refined for such gross apprehensions, and w^ould 
lead men into inquiries concerning the frame of nature, a sub- 
ject too large and comprehensive for their narrow capacities. 
'No passions, therefore, can be supposed to work on such bar- 
barians, but the ordinary affections of human life; the anx- 
ious concern for happiness, the dread of future misery, the 
terror of death, the thirst of revenge, the appetite for food, 
and other necessaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this 
nature, especially the latter, men scrutinize, wdth a trembling 
curiosity, the course of future causes, and examine the vari- 
ous and contrary events of human life. And in tliis disor- 
dered scene, wdth eyes still more disordered and astonished, 
they see the first obscure traces of divinity," — (IV. pp. 443,4.) 

The shape assumed by these first traces of divinity is 
that of the shadows of men's own minds, projected out of 
themselves by their imaginations : — 

" There is an universal tendency among mankind to con- 
ceive all beings like themselves, and to transfer to every ob- 
ject those qualities with which they are familiarly acquaint- 
ed, and of which they are intimately conscious. . . . The trn- 
hiown cmises wdiich continually employ their thought, appear- 
ing alw^ays in the same aspect, are all apprehended to be of 
the same kind or species. Nor is it long before w^e ascribe 
to them thought, and reason, and passion, and sometimes 
even the limbs and figures of men, in order to bring them 
nearer to a resemblance with ourselves." — (TV. p. 446 — 7.) 



viil] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 157 

Hume asks whether polytheism really deserves the name 
of theism. 

" Our ancestors in Europe, before the revival of letters, be- 
lieved as we do at present, that there was one supreme God, 
the author of nature, wdiose i^ower, though in itself uncon- 
trollable, was yet often exerted by the inter^^osition of his 
angels and subordinate ministers, who executed his sacred 
purposes. But they also believed that all nature was full of 
other invisible powders : fairies, goblins, elves, sprights; beings 
strono^er and mi«;htier than men, but much inferior to the ce- 
lestial natures who surround the throne of God. Now, sup- 
pose that any one, in these ages, had denied the existence of 
God and of his angels, w^ould not his impiety justly have de- 
served the appellation of atheism, even though he had still 
allowed, by some odd capricious reasoning, that the popular 
stories of elves and fairies were just and well grounded ? 
The difference, on the one hand, between such a person and 
a genuine theist, is infinitely greater than that, on the other, 
between him and one that absolutely excludes all invisible 
intelligent power. And it is a fallacy, merely from the ca'sual 
resc3inblance of names, without any conformity of meaning, 
to rank such opposite opinions under the same denomination. 

"To any one who considers justly of the matter, it will ap- 
pear that the gods of the polytheists are no better than the 
elves and fairies of our ancestors, and merit as little as any 
pious worship and veneration. These pretended religionists 
are really a kind of superstitious atheists, and acknowledge 
no being that corresponds to our idea of a Deity. No first 
principle of mind or thought; no supreme government and 
administration; no divine contrivance or intention in the 
fabric of the world."— (IV. p. 450— 51.) 

The doctrine that you may call an atheist anybody 
whose ideas about the Deity do not correspond with your 
own, is so largely acted upon by persons who are certainly 



158 HUME. [chap. 

not of Hume's way of thinking, and probably, so far from 
having read him, would shudder to open any book bearing 
his name, except the History of England, that it is sur- 
prising to trace the theory of their practice to such a 
source. 

But on thinking the matter over, this theory seems so 
consonant with reason, that one feels ashamed of having 
suspected many excellent persons of being moved by mere 
malice and viciousness of temper to call other folks athe- 
ists, when, after all, they have been obeying a purely in- 
tellectual sense of fitness. As Hume says, truly enough, it 
is a mere fallacy, because two people use the same names 
for things, the ideas of which are mutually exclusive, to 
rank such opposite opinions under the same denomina- 
tion. If the Jew says that the Deity is absolute unity, 
and that it is sheer blasphemy to say that He ever be- 
came incarnate in the person of a man ; and if the Trini- 
tarian says that the Deity is numerically three as well as 
numerically one, and that it is sheer blasphemy to say that 
He did not so become incarnate, it is obvious enough that 
each must be logically held to deny the existence of the 
other's Deity. Therefore, that each has a scientific right 
to call the other an atheist ; and that, if he refrains, it is 
only on the ground of decency and good manners, Avhich 
should restrain an honourable man from employing even 
scientifically justifiable language, if custom has given it an 
abusive connotation. While one must agree with Hume, 
then, it is, nevertheless, to be wished that he had not set 
the bad example of calling polytheists '^ superstitious athe- 
ists." It probably did not occur to him that, by a parity 
of reasoning, the Unitarians might justify the application 
of the same language to the TJl tramontanes, and vice versa. 
Bat, to return from a digression which may not be whol- 



yiil] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 159 

]y unprofitable, Hume proceeds to show in what manner 
polytheism incorporated physical and moral allegories, and 
naturally accepted hero-worship; and he sums up his 
views of the first stages of the evolution of theology as 
follows : — 

"These then are the general principles of polytheism, 
founded in human nature, and little or nothing dependent 
on caprice or accident. As the causes which bestow hapjDi- 
ness or misery are in general very little known and very un- 
certain, our anxious concern endeavours to attain a determi- 
nate idea of them : and finds no better expedient than to 
represent them as intelligent, voluntary agents, like our- 
selves, only somewhat superior in power and wisdom. Tlie 
limited influence of these agents, and their proximity to hu- 
man weakness, introduce the various distribution and divis- 
ion of their authority, and thereby give rise to allegory. 
The same principles naturally deify mortals, superior in pow- 
er, courage, or understanding, and produce hero-worship; 
together with fabulous history and mythological tradition, 
in all its wild and unaccountable forms. And as an invisi- 
ble sjoiritual intelligence is an object too refined for vulgar 
apprehension, men naturally afiix it to some sensible repre- 
sentation ; such as either the more conspicuous parts of nat- 
ure, or the statues, images, and pictures, which a more re- 
fined age forms of its divinities." — (lY. p. 461.) 

How did the further stage of theology, monotheism, 
arise out of polytheism ? Hume replies, certainly not 
by reasonings from first causes or any sort of fine-drawn 
logic : — 

" Even at this day, and in Europe, ask any of the vulgar 
wdiy he believes in an Omnipotent Creator of the world, he 
wdll never mention the beauty of final causes, of which he is 
wdiolly ignorant: He will not hold out his hand and bid you 
contemplate the suppleness and variety of joints in his fin- 



160 HUME. [chap. 

gers, their bending all one way, the counterpoise which they 
receive from the thumb, the softness and fleshy parts of the 
inside of the hand, with all the other circumstances which 
render that member fit for the use to which it was destined. 
To these he has been long accustomed ; and he beholds 
them with listlessness and unconcern. He will tell you of 
the sudden and unexpected death of such-a-one; the fall and 
bruise of such another ; the excessive drought of this sea- 
son; the cold and rains of another. These he ascribes to 
the immediate operation of Providence : And such events 
as, with good reasoners, are the chief difiiculties in admitting 
a Supreme Intelligence, are with him the sole arguments 
for it. . . . 

"We may conclude, therefore, upon the whole, that since 
the vulgar, in nations which have embraced the doctrine 
of theism, still build it upon irrational and superstitious 
grounds, they are never led into that opinion by any proc- 
ess of argument, but by a certain train of thinking, more 
suitable to their genius and capacity. 

"It may readily happen, in an idolatrous nation, that 
though men admit the existence of several limited deities, 
yet there is some one God whom, in a particular manner, 
they make the object of their worship and adoration. They 
may either suppose that, in the distribution of power and 
territory among the Gods, their nation was subjected to the 
jurisdiction of that particular deity ; or, reducing heavenly 
objects to the model of things below, they may represent one 
god as the prince or supreme magistrate of the rest, who, 
though of the same nature, rules them with an authority like 
that which an earthly sovereign exerts over his subjects and 
vassals. Whether this god, therefore, be considered as their 
peculiar patron, or as the general sovereign of heaven, his 
votaries will endeavour, by every art, to insinuate themselves 
into his favour; and supposing him to be pleased, like them- 
selves, with praise and flattery, there is no eulogy or exagger- 
ation w^hicli will be spared in their addresses to him. In 



vm.] THEISM; EVOLUTION OF THEOLOGY. 161 

proportion as men's fears or distresses become more urgent, 
they still invent new strains of adulation ; and even lie who 
outdoes his predecessor in swelling the titles of his divinity, 
is sure to be outdone by his successor in newer and more 
pompous epithets of praise. Thus tliey proceed, till at last 
they arrive at infinity itself, beyond which there is no further 
progress : And it is well if, in striving to get further, and 
to represent a magnificent simplicity, they run not into inex- 
plicable mystery, and destroy the intelligent nature of their 
deity, on which alone any rational worship or adoration can 
be founded. While they confine themselves to the notion 
of a perfect being, the Creator of the world, they coincide, by 
chance, with the principles of reason and true philosophy ; 
though they are guided to that notion, not by reason, of 
which they are in a great measure incapable, but by the 
adulation and fears of the most vulgar superstition. — (IV. p. 
463—6.) 

" Nay, if we should suppose, what never happens, that a 
popular religion were found, in which it was expressly de- 
clared that nothing but morality could gain the divine fa- 
vour ; if an order of priests were instituted to inculcate this 
opinion, in daily sermons, and with all the arts of persua- 
sion ; yet so inveterate are the people's prejudices, that, for 
want of some other superstition, they would make the very 
attendance on these sermons the essentials of religion, rather 
than place them in virtue and good morals. The sublime 
prologue of Zaleucus' laws inspired not the Locrians, so far 
as we can learn, with any sounder notions of the measures 
of acceptance with the deity, than were familiar to the other 
Greeks."— (IV. p. 505.) 

It has been reraarked that Hume's writings are singu- 
larly devoid of local colour; of allusions to the scenes with 
which he was familiar, and to the people from whom he 
sprang. Yet, surely, the Lowlands of Scotland were more 
in his thoughts than the Zephyrean promontory, and the 



162 HUME. [chap. 

hard visage of John Knox peered from behind the njask of 
Zaieucus, when this passage left his pen. Nay, might not 
an acnte German critic discern therein a reminiscence of 
that eminently Scottish institution, a "Holy Fair?" where, 
as Hume's young contemporary sings : — 

u^ ^ ^ opens out his cauld harangues 
On practice and on morals ; 
An' aif the godly pour in thrangs 
To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 

''What signifies his barren shine 
Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style and gesture fine 

Are a' clean out of season. 
Like Socrates or Antouine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 
But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day." ' 

^ Burns published the Hol^ Fair only ten years after Hume's 
death. 



IX,] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 163 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE SOUL : THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 

Descartes taiis^ht that an absolute difference of kind 
separates matter, as that which possesses extension, from 
spirit, as that which thinks. They not only have no 
character in common, but it is inconceivable that they 
should have any. On the assumption that the attributes 
of the two were wholly different, it appeared to be a nec- 
essary consequence that the hypothetical causes of these 
attributes — their respective substances — must be totally 
different. Notably, in the matter of divisibility, since 
that which has no extension cannot be divisible, it seem- 
ed that the chose pensante^ the soul, must be an indivisi- 
ble entity. 

Later philosophers, accepting this notion of the soul, 
were naturally much perplexed to understand how, if mat- 
ter and spirit had nothing in common, they could act and 
react on one another. All the changes of matter being 
modes of motion, the difficulty of understanding how a 
moving extended material body was to affect a thinking 
thing which had no dimension, was as great as that in- 
volved in solving the problem of how to hit a nomina- 
tive case with a stick. Hence, the successors of Descartes 
either found themselves obliged, with the Occasionalists, 
to call in the aid of the Deity, who was supposed to be 
8 



164 HUME. [chap. 

a sort of go-between betwixt matter and spirit ; or they 
had recourse, with Leibnitz, to the doctrine of pre-estab- 
lished harmony, which denies any influence of the body 
on the soul, or vice versa^ and compared matter and spirit 
to two clocks so accurately regulated to keep time with 
one another, that the one struck whenever the other point- 
ed to the hour ; or, with Berkeley, they abolished the 
"substance" of matter altogether, as a superfluity, though 
they failed to see that the same arguments equally justi- 
fied the abolition of soul as another superfluity, and the 
reduction of the universe to a series of events or phenom- 
ena ; or, finally, wdth Spinoza, to whom Berkeley makes a 
perilously close approach, they asserted the existence of 
only one substance, with two chief attributes, the one 
thought, and the other extension. 

There remained only one possible position, which, had 
it been taken up earlier, might have saved an immensity 
of trouble ; and that was to affirm that we do not, and 
cannot, know anything about the " substance " either of 
the thinking thing or of the extended thing. And 
Hume's sound common sense led him to defend this 
thesis, which Locke had already foreshadowed, with re- 
spect to the question of the substance of the soul. Hume 
enunciates two opinions. The first is that the question 
itself is unintelligible, and therefore cannot receive any 
answer; the second is that the popular doctrine respect- 
ing the immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a 
thinking substance is a "true atheism, and will serve to 
justify all those sentiments for which Spinoza is so uni- 
versally infamous." 

In support of the first opinion, Hume points out that 
it is impossible to attach any definite meaning to the 
word " substance " when employed for the hypothetical 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY, 165 

substratum of soul and matter. For if we define sub- 
stance as that which may exist by itself, the definition 
does not distinguish the soul from perceptions. It is 
perfectly easy to conceive that states of consciousness are 
self-subsistent. And, if the substance of the soul is de- 
fined as that in which perceptions inhere, what is meant 
by the inherence? Is such, inherence conceivable? If 
conceivable, what evidence is there of it ? And what is 
the use of a substratum to things which, for anything we 
know to the contrary, are capable of existing by them- 
selves ? 

Moreover, it may be added, supposing the soul has a 
substance, how do we know that it is different from the 
substance, which, on like grounds, must be supposed to 
underlie the qualities of matter ? 

Again, if it be said that our personal identity requires 
the assumption of a substance which remains the same 
while the accidents of perception shift and change, the 
question arises what is meant by personal identity ? 

" For my part," says Hume, " when I enter most intimate- 
ly into what I call myself^ I always stumble on some particu- 
lar perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love 
or hatred, pain or 23leasure. I never can catch myself at any 
time without a perception, and never can observe anything 
but the perception. When my perceptions are removed for 
any time, as by sound sleep, so long am I insensible of my- 
self^ and may be truly said not to exist. And were all my 
perceptions removed by death, and I could neither think, 
nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate, after the dissolution of 
my body, I should be entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive 
what is further requisite to make me a perfect nonentity. 
If any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection, thinks 
he has a different notion of himself, I must confess I can rea- 
son no longer with him. All I can allow him is, that he 



166 HUME. [chap. 

may be in the right as well as I, and that we are essentially 
different in this particular. He may perhaps perceive some- 
thing simple and continued which he calls Mmself^ though 
I am certain there is no such principle in me. 

" But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I 
may venture to affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are 
nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions, 
which succeed one another with an inconceivable rapidity, 
and are in a perpetual flux and movement. . . . The mind 
is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively 
make their appearance, pass, repass, glide away, and mingle 
in an infinite variety of postures and situations. There is 
properly no simplicity in it at one time, nor identity in dif- 
ferent, whatever natural propension we may have to imagine 
that simplicity and identity. The comparison of the theatre 
must not mislead us. They are the successive perceptions 
only that constitute the mind ; nor have we the most distant 
notion of the jDlace w^here these scenes are represented, or of 
the materials of which it is composed. 

"What then gives so great a propension to ascribe an 
identity to these successive perceptions, and to suppose our- 
\ selves possessed of an invariable and uninterrupted existence 

through the whole course of our lives ? In order to answer 
this question, we must distinguish between personal identity 
as it regards our thought and imagination, and as it regards 
our passions, or the concern we take in ourselves. The first 
is our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must 
take the matter pretty deep, and account for that identity 
which we attribute to plants and animals, there being a 
great analogy betwixt it and the identity of a self or per- 
son."— (I. p. 321, 322.) 

Perfect identity is exhibited by an object which remains 
unchanged throughout a certain time ; perfect diversity 
is seen in two or more objects which are separated by in- 
tervals of space and periods of time. But in both these 



ix.J THE SOUL : THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 167 

cases there is no sharp line of demarcation between iden- 
tity and diversity, and it is impossible to say when an 
object ceases to be one and becomes two. 

When a sea-anemone multiplies by division, there is a 
time during which it is said to be one animal partially di- 
vided ; but, after a while, it becomes two animals adherent 
together, and the limit between these conditions is purely 
arbitrary. So in mineralogy, a crystal of a definite chem- 
ical composition may have its substance replaced, particle 
by particle, by another chemical compound. When does 
it lose its primitive identity and become a new thing ? 

Again, a plant or an animal, in the course of its exist- 
ence, from the condition of an egg or seed to the end of 
life, remains the same neither in form, nor in structure, 
nor in the matter of which it is composed : every attribute 
it possesses is constantly changing, and yet we say that 
it is always one and the same individual. And if, in this 
case, we attribute identity without supposing an indivisi- 
ble immaterial something to underlie and condition that 
identity, why should we need the supposition in the case 
of that succession of changeful phenomena we call the 
mind ? 

In fact, we ascribe identity to an individual plant or 
animal, simply because there has been no moment of time 
at which we could observe any division of it into parts 
separated by time or space. Every experience we have of 
it is as one thing and not as two ; and we sum up our ex- 
periences in the ascription of identity, although we know 
quite well that, strictly speaking, it has not been the same 
for any two moments. 

So with the mind. Our perceptions flow in even suc- 
cession ; the impressions of the present moment are inex- 
tricably mixed up with the memories of yesterday and 



168 HUME. [chap. 

the expectations of to-morrow, and all are connected by 
the links of cause and effect. 



"... as the same individual republic may not only change 
its members, but also its laws and constitutions ; in like man- 
ner the same person may vary his character and disposition, 
as well as his impressions and ideas, without losing his iden- 
tity. Whatever changes he endures, his several parts are still 
connected by the relation of causation. And in this view 
our identity with regard to the passions serves to corrobo- 
rate that with regard to the imagination, by the making our 
distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a 
present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures. 

"As memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and 
extent of this succession of perceptions, 'tis to be considered, 
upon that account chiefly, as the source of personal identity. 
Had we no memory we never should have any notion of cau- 
sation, nor consequently of that chain of causes and efiects 
which constitute our self or person. But having once ac- 
quired this notion of causation from the memory, we can ex- 
tend the same chain of causes, and consequently the identi- 
ty of our persons, beyond our memory, and can comprehend 
times, and circumstances, and actions, which we have entire- 
ly forgot, but suppose in general to have existed. For how 
few of our past actions are there of which we have any mem- 
ory ? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts 
and actions on the first of January, 1715, the eleventh of 
March, 1719, and the third of August, 1733 ? Or will he af- 
firm, because he has entirely forgot the incidents of those 
days, that the present self is not the same person with the 
self of that time, and by that means overturn all the most 
established notions of personal identity? In this view, 
therefore, memory does not so much produce as discover per- 
sonal identity, by showing us the relation of cause and eff*ect 
among our difierent perceptions. 'Twill be incumbent on 
those who affirm that memory produces entirely our person- 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 169 

al identity, to give a reason why we can thus extend our 
identity beyond our memory. 

" The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion which 
is of great importance in the present affair, viz., that all the 
nice and subtle questions concerning personal identity can 
never possibly be decided, and are to be regarded rather as 
grammatical than as philosophical difficulties. Identity de- 
pends on the relations of ideas, and these relations produce 
identity by means of that easy transition they occasion. But 
as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may dimin- 
ish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard by which 
we can decide any dispute concerning the time when they 
acquire or lose a title to the name of identity. All the dis- 
putes concerning the identity of connected objects are mere- 
ly verbal, except so far as the relation of parts gives rise to 
some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we have al- 
ready observed. 

"What I have said concerning the first origin and uncer- 
tainty of our notion of identity, as applied to the human 
mind, may be extended, with little or no variation, to that of 
shnplicity. An object, whose different co-existent parts are 
bound together by a close relation, operates upon the imag- 
ination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple 
and undivisible, and requires not a much greater stretch of 
thought in order to its conception. From this similarity of 
operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a prin- 
ciple of union as the support of this simplicity, and the cen- 
tre of all the different parts and qualities of the object." — 
(L p. 331—3.) 

The fi-nal result of Hume's reasoning comes to this : As 
we use the name of body for the sum of the phenomena 
which make up our corporeal existence, so we employ the 
name of soul for the sum of the phenomena which consti- 
tute our mental existence ; and we have no more reason, 
in the latter case, than in the former, to suppose that there 



ITO HUME. [chap. 

is anything beyond the phenomena which answers to the 
name. In the case of the soul, as in that of the bodv, 
the idea of substance is a mere fiction of the imagination. 
This conclusion is nothing but a rigorous application of 
Berkeley's reasoning concerning matter to mind, and it is 
fully adopted by Kant.^ 

Having arrived at the conclusion that the conception of 
a soul, as a substantive thing, is a mere figment of the im- 
agination ; and that, whether it exists or not, we can by no 
possibility know anything about it, the inquiry as to the 
durability of the soul may seem superfluous. 

Nevertheless, there is still a sense in which, even under 
these conditions, such an inquiry is justifiable. Leaving 
aside the problem of the substance of the soul, and taking 
the word " soul " simply as a name for the series of men- 
tal phenomena which make up an individual mind ; it re- 
mains open to us to ask whether that series commenced 
with, or before, the series of phenomena which constitute 
the corresponding individual body ; and whether it termi- 
nates with the end of the corporeal series, or goes on af- 
ter the existence of the body has ended. And in both 
cases there arises the further question, whether the excess 
of duration of the mental series over that of the body is 
finite or infinite. 

Hume has discussed some of these questions in the re- 
markable essay On the Immortality of the Sotd, which 
was not published till after his death, and which seems 
long to have remained but little known. Nevertheless^ 

^ " Our internal intuition shows no permanent existence, for the 
Ego is only the consciousness of my thinking." " There is no means 
whatever by which we can learn anything respecting the constitu- 
tion of the soul, so far as regards the possibility of its separate ex- 
istence." — Kritik von den Paralogismen der reinen Vermmft. 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. Ill 

indeed, possibly, for tliat reason, its influence has been 
manifested in unexpected quarters, and its main argu- 
ments have been adduced by archiepiscopal and episcopal 
authority in evidence of the value of revelation. Dr. 
Whately,^ sometime Archbishop of Dublin, paraphrases 
Hume, though he forgets to cite him ; and Bishop Cour- 
tenay's elaborate work,^ dedicated to the Archbishop, is a 
development of that prelate's version of Hume's essay. 

This little paper occupies only some ten pages, but it 
is not wonderful that it attracted an acute logician like 
Whately, for it is a model of clear and vigorous state- 
ment. The argument hardly admits of condensation, so 
that I must let Hume speak for himself : — 

" By the mere light of reason it seems difficult to prove 
the immortality of the soul : the arguments for it are com- 
monly derived either from metaphysical topics, or moral, or 
physical. But in reality it is the gospel, and the gospel 
alone, that has brought life and immortality to light." ^ 

'' 1. Metaphysical topics suppose that the soul is immateri- 
al, and that 'tis impossible for thought to belong to a mate- 
rial substance.* But just metaphysics teach us that the no- 

^ Essays on Some of the Peculiarities of the Christian Religion (Es- 
say I. Revelation of a Future State), by Richard Whately, D.D., Arch- 
bishop of Dubhn. Fifth Edition, revised, 1846. 

^ The Future States: their Evidences and Nature; considered on 
Principles Physical^ Moral^ and Scriptural^ with the Design of showing 
the Value of the Gospel Revelation^ by the Right Rev. Reginald Courte- 
nay, D.D., Lord Bishop of Kingston (Jamaica), 1857. 

^ " Now that ' Jesus Christ brought hfe and immortality to light 
through the Gospel,' and that in the most literal sense, which im- 
plies that the revelation of the doctrine is peculiar to his Gospel, 
seems to be at least the most obvious meaning of the Scriptures of 
the New Testament." — Whately, Lc. p. 27. 

^ Compare, Of the Immateriality of the Soul^ Section V. of Part 
8^ 



112 HUME. [chap. 

tion of substance is wholly confused and imperfect ; and that 
we have no other idea of any substance, than as an aggre- 
gate of particular qualities inhering in an unknown some- 
thing. Matter, therefore, and spirit, are at bottom equally 
unknown, and we cannot determine w^hat qualities inhere in 
the one or in the other.^ They likewise teach us that noth- 
ing can be decided a priori concerning any cause or effect ; 
and that experience being the only source of our judgments 
of this nature, we cannot know from any other principle, 
whether matter, by its structure or arrangement, may not be 
the cause of thought. Abstract reasonings cannot decide 
any question of fact or existence. But admitting a spiritual 
substance to be dispersed throughout the universe, like the 
ethereal fire of the Stoics, and to be the only inherent subject 
of thought, we have reason to conclude, from analogy^ that 
nature uses it after the manner she does the other substance, 
matter. She employs it as a kind of paste or clay ; modifies 
it into a variety of forms or existences ; dissolves after a time 
each modification, and from its substance erects a new form. 
As the same material substance may successively compose 
the bodies of all animals, the same spiritual substance may 
compose their minds : Their consciousness, or that system of 
thought which they formed during life, may be continually 
dissolved by death, and nothing interests them in the new 
modification. The most positive assertors of the mortality 
of the soul never denied the immortality of its substance ; 
and that an immaterial substance, as well as a material, may 

lY., Book I., of the Treatise^ in which Hume concludes (I. p. 319) 
that, whether it be material or immaterial, " in both cases the meta- 
physical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally incon- 
clusive; and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived 
from the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing," 

^ "The question again respecting the materiality of the soul is 
one which I am at a loss to understand clearly, till it shall have been 
clearly determined what matter is. We know nothing of it, any more 
than of mind, except its attributes." — Whately, Ic. p. 66. 



IX.] THE SOUL : THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 173 

lose its memory or consciousness, appears in part from ex- 
perience, if the soul be immateriaL Keasoning from the 
common course of nature, and without supposing any new 
interposition of the Supreme Cause, which ought always to 
be excluded from philosophy, what is incorruptiUe must also 
le ingenerdble. The soul, therefore, if immortal, existed be- 
fore our birth, and if the former existence noways concerned 
us, neither win the latter. Animals undoubtedly feel, think, 
love, hate, will, and even reason, though in a more imperfect 
manner than men : Are their souls also immaterial and im- 
mortal ?"i 

Hume next proceeds to consider the moral arguments, 
and chiefly 

"... those derived from the justice of God, which is sup- 
posed to be farther interested in the future punishment of 
the vicious and reward of the virtuous." 

But if by the justice of God we mean the same attri- 
bute which we call justice in ourselves, then why should 
either reward or punishment be extended beyond this 
life ? ^ Our sole means of knowing anything is the rea- 

^ " None of those who contend for the natural immortality of the 
soul . . . have been able to extricate themselves from one difficulty, 
viz., that all their arguments apply, with exactly the same force, to 
prove an immortality, not only of brutes^ but even of plants ; though 
in such a conclusion as this they are never willing to acquiesce." — 
Whately, I.e. p. 67. 

2 " Nor are we therefore authorised to infer a priori^ independent 
of Revelation, a future state of retribution, from the irregularities 
prevailing in the present life, since that future state does not 
account fully for these irregularities. It may explain, indeed, how 
present evil may be conducive to future good, but not why the good 
could not be attained without the evil ; it may reconcile with our no- 
tions of the divine justice the present prosperity of the wicked, but 
it does not account for the existence of the wicked." — Whately, I.e. 
pp. 69, 70. 



1^74 HUME. [chap. 

soning faculty whicli God has given us ; and that reason- 
ing faculty not only denies us any conception of a future 
state, but fails to furnish a single valid argument in favour 
of the belief that the mind will endure after the dissolu- 
tion of the body. 

'^ ... If any purpose of nature be clear, we may affirm that 
the whole scope and intention of man's creation, so far as we 
can judge by natural reason, is limited to the present life." 

To the argument that the powers of man are so much 
greater than the needs of this life require, that they 
suggest a future scene in which they can be employed, 
Hume replies :— 

" If the reason of man gives him great superiority above 
other animals, his necessities are proportionably multiplied 
upon him; his whole time, his whole capacit}^, activity, 
courage, and passion, find sufficient employment in fencing 
against the miseries of his present condition; and frequently, 
nay, almost always, are too slender for the business assigned 
them. A pair of shoes, perhaps, was never yet wrought to 
the highest degree of perfection that commodity is capable 
of attaining; yet it is necessary, at least very useful, that 
there should be some politicians and moralists, even some 
geometers, poets, and philosophers, among mankind. The 
powers of men are no more superior to their wants, consid- 
ered merely in this life, than those of foxes and hares are, 
compared to their wants and to their period of existence. 
The inference from parity of reason is therefore obvious." 

In short, Hume argues that, if the faculties with which 
we are endowed are unable to discover a future state, and 
if the most attentive consideration of their nature serves 
to show that they are adapted to this life and nothing 
more, it is surely inconsistent with any conception of jus- 
tice that we should be dealt with as if we had all along 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTEINE OF IMMORTALITY. 175 

had a clear knowledge of the fact thus carefully concealed 
from us. What should we think of the justice of a fa- 
ther who gave his son every reason to suppose that a triv- 
ial fault would only be visited by a box on the ear ; and 
then, years afterwards, put him on the rack for a week for 
the same fault ? 

Aa'ain, the suwestion arises, if God is the cause of all 
things, he is responsible for evil as well as for good ; and 
it appears utterly irreconcilable with our notions of justice 
that he should punish another for that which he has, in 
fact, done himself. Moreover, just punishment bears a 
proportion to the offence, while suffering which is infinite 
is ipso facto disproportionate to any finite deed. 

" Why then eternal punishment for the temporary offences 
of so frail a creature as man ? Can any one approve of Al- 
exander's rage, who intended to exterminate a whole nation 
because they had seized his favourite horse Bucephalus ? 

'' Heaven and hell suppose tw^o distinct species of men, the 
good and the bad ; but the greatest part of mankind float 
betwixt vice and virtue. Were one to go round the world 
with the intention of giving a good supper to the righteous 
and a sound drubbing to the wicked, he would frequently be 
embarrassed in his choice, and would find the merits and de- 
merits of most men and women scarcely amount to the value 
of either." ^ 

^ " So reason also shows, that for man to expect to earn for him- 
self by the practice of virtue, and claim, as his just right, an immor- 
tality of exalted happiness, is a most extravagant and groundless 
pretension." — Whately, I.e. p. 101. On the other hand, however, the 
Archbishop sees no unreasonableness in a man's earning for himself 
an immortality of intense unhappiness by the practice of vice. So 
that life is, naturally, a venture in which you may lose all, but can 
earn nothing. It may be thought somewhat hard upon mankind if 
they are pushed into a speculation of this sort, willy-nilly. 



176 HUME. [chap. 

One can but admire the broad buraanity and tbe in- 
sight into the springs of action manifest in this passage. 
Comprendre est a moitie pardonner. The more one knows 
of the real conditions which determine men's acts, the less 
one finds either to praise or blame. For kindly David 
Hmxie, " the damnation of one man is an infinitely great- 
er evil in the universe than the subversion of a thousand 
million of kino-doms." And he would have felt with his 
countryman Burns, that even " auld Nickie Ben " should 
^' hae a chance." 

As against those who reason for the necessity of a 
future state, in order that the justice of the Deity may 
be satisfied, Hume's argamentation appears unanswerable. 
For if the justice of God resembles v/hat we mean by jus- 
tice, the bestowal of infinite happiness for finite well-do- 
ing and infinite misery for finite ill-doing, it is in no sense 
just. And, if the justice of God does not resemble what 
we mean by justice, it is an abuse of language to employ 
the name of justice for the attribute described by it. But, 
as against those who choose to argue that there is nothing 
in what is known to us of the attributes of the Deity in- 
consistent with a futnre state of rewards and punishments, 
Hume's pleadings have no force. Bishop Butler's argu- 
ment that, inasmuch as the visitation of our acts by re- 
wards and punishments takes place in this life, rewards 
and punishments must be consistent wdth the attributes of 
the Deity, and therefore may go on as long as the mind 
endures, is unanswerable. Whatever exists is, by the hy- 
pothesis, existent by the will of God ; and, therefore, the 
pains and pleasures which exist now may go on existing 
for all eternity, either increasing, diminishing, or being 
endlessly varied in their intensity, as they are now. 

It is remarkable that Hume does not refer to the senti- 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. ITi 

mental arguments for the immortality of the soul which 
are so much in vogue at the present day, and which are 
based upon our desire for a longer conscious existence than 
that which nature appears to have allotted to us. Perhaps 
he did not think them worth notice. For indeed it is not 
a little strange, that our strong desire that a certain occur- 
rence should happen should be put forward as evidence 
that it will happen. If my intense desire to see the friend 
from whom I have parted does not bring him from the 
other side of the world, or take me thither ; if the moth- 
er's agonised prayer that her child should live has not pre- 
vented him from dying ; experience certainly affords no 
presumption that the strong desire to be alive after death, 
which we call the aspiration after immortality, is any more 
likely to be gratified. As Hume truly says, "All doctrines 
are to be suspected which are favoured by our passions ;" 
and the doctrine, that we are immortal because we should 
extremely like to be so, contains the quintessence of sus- 
piciousness. 

In respect of the existence and attributes of the soul, 
as of those of the Deity, then, logic is powerless and rea- 
son silent. At the most we can get no further than the 
conclusion of Kant : — 

" After we have satisfied ourselves of the vanity of all the 
ambitious attempts of reason to fly beyond the bounds of 
experience, enough remains of practical value to content us. 
It is true that no one may boast that he Jcnoics that God and 
a future life exist ; for, if he possesses such knowledge, he 
is just the man for whom I have long been seeking. All 
knowledge (touching an object of mere reason) can be com- 
municated, and therefore I might hope to see my own knowl- 
edge increased to this prodigious extent, by his instruction, 
No ; our conviction in these matters is not logical, but moral 



178 HUME. [chap. 

certainty; and^ inasmuch as it rests upon subjective grounds 
(of moral disposition), I must not even say, ^^ is morally cer- 
tain that there is a God, and so on ; but, I am morally cer- 
tain, and so on. That is to say, the belief in a God and in 
another world is so interwoven with my moral nature, that 
the former can no more vanish than the latter can ever be 
torn from me. 

" The only point to be remarked here is that this act of 
faith of the intellect {Vernunftglaube) assumes the existence 
of moral dispositions. If we leave them aside, and suppose a 
mind quite indifferent to moral laws, the inquiry started by 
reason becomes merely a subject for speculation; and [the 
conclusion attained] may then indeed be supported by strong 
arguments from analogy, but not by such as are competent 
to overcome persistent scepticism. 

" There is no one, however, who can fail to be interested 
in these questions. For, although he may be excluded from 
moral influences by the want of a good disposition, yet, even 
in this case, enough remains to lead him to fear a divine ex- 
istence and a future state. To this end, no more is necessary 
than that he can at least have no certainty that there is no 
such being, and no future life ; for, to make this conclusion 
demonstratively certain, he must be able to prove the impos- 
sibility of both ; and this assuredly no rational man can un- 
dertake to do. This negative belief, indeed, cannot produce 
either morality or good dispositions, but can operate in an 
analogous fashion, by powerfully repressing the outbreak of 
evil tendencies. 

" But it will be said, is this all that Pure Eeason can do 
when it gazes out beyond the bounds of experience ? Noth- 
ing more than two articles of faith ? Common sense could 
achieve as much without calling the philosophers to its 
counsels ! 

" I will not here speak of the service which philosophy 
has rendered to human reason by the laborious efforts of its 
criticism, granting that the outcome proves to be merely neg- 



IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 179 

ative : about that matter something is to be said in the fol- 
lowing section. But do you then ask, that the knowledge 
which interests all men shall transcend the common under- 
standing, and be discovered for you only by pliilosophers ? 
The very thing which you make a reproach is the best con- 
firmation of the justice of the previous conclusions, since it 
shows that which could not, at first, have been anticipated ; 
namely, that in those matters which concern all men alike, 
nature is not guilty of distributing her gifts with partiality ; 
and that the highest philosophy, in dealing with the most 
important concerns of humanity, is able to take us no fur- 
ther than the guidance which she afibrds to the commonest 
understanding." ^ 

In short, nothing can be proved or disproved respect- 
ing either the distinct existence, the substance, or the du- 
rability of the soul. So far, Kant is at one with Hume. 
But Kant adds, as you cannot disprove the immortality 
of the soul, and as the belief therein is very useful for 
moral purposes, you may assume it. To which, had 
Hume lived half a century later, he would probably have 
replied that, if morality has no better foundation than 
an assumption, it is not likely to bear much strain ; and, 
if it has a better foundation, the assumption rather weak- 
ens than strenQ:thens it. 

As has been already said, Hume is not content with 
denying that we know anything about the existence or 
the nature of the soul ; but he carries the war into the en- 
emy's camp, and accuses those who affirm the immaterial- 
ity, simplicity, and indivisibility of the thinking substance, 
of atheism and Spinozism, which are assumed to be con- 
vertible terms. 

The method of attack is ingenious. Observation ap- 

^ Kritik der reme^i Vernunft. Ed. Hartenstein, p. 547. 



180 HUME. • [chap. 

pears to acquaint lis with two different systems of beings, 
and both Spinoza and orthodox philosophers agree that 
the necessary substratum of each of these is a substance, 
in which the phenomena adhere, or of which they are at- 
tributes or modes. 

" I observe first tlie universe of objects or of body ; the 
sun, moon, and stars : the earth, seas, plants, animals, men, 
ships, houses, and other productions either of art or of nat- 
ure. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me that these are only 
modifications, and that the subject in which they inhere is 
simple, uncompounded, and indivisible. After this I con- 
sider the other system of beings, viz., the universe of thought, 
or my impressions and ideas. Then I observe another sun, 
moon, and stars ; an earth and seas, covered and inhabited 
by plants and animals, towns, houses, mountains, rivers, and, 
in short, everything I can discover or conceive in the first 
system. Upon my inquiring concerning these, theologians 
present themselves, and tell me that these also are modifica- 
tions, and modifications of one simple, uncompounded, and 
indivisible substance. Immediately upon, which I am deaf- 
ened with the noise of a hundred voices, that treat the first 
hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and the second with 
applause and veneration. I turn my attention to these hy- 
potheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partial- 
ity ; and find that they have the same fault of being unintel- 
ligible, and that, as far as we can understand them, they are 
so much alike, that 'tis impossible to discover any absurdity 
in one which is not common to both of them." — (I. p. 309.) 

For the manner in which Hume makes his case good, 
I must refer to the original. Plain people may rest satis- 
fied that both hypotheses are unintelligible, without plung- 
ing any further among syllogisms, the premisses of which 
convey no meaning, while the conclusions carry no con- 
viction. 



X.] yOLITIO:N': LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 181 



CHAPTER X. 

VOLITION : LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 

In the opening paragraphs of the third part of the sec- 
ond book of the Treatise, Hume gives a description of the 
will. 

" Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure there 
is none more remarkable than the will; and though, proper- 
ly speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions, yet 
as the full understanding of its nature and properties is nec- 
essary to the explanation of them, we shall here make it the 
subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed, that by 
the will I mean nothing but the internal impression we feel, 
and are conscious of, when we hioiDingly give rise to any new 
motion of our body, or new perception of our mind. This hn- 
pression, like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love 
and hatred, 'tis impossible to define, and needless to describe 
any further.''— (II. p. 150.) 

This description of volition may be criticised on vari- 
ous grounds. More especially does it seem defective in 
restricting the term "will" to that feehng which arises 
when we act, or appear to act, as causes ; for one may 
will to strike without striking, or to think of something 
which w^e have forgotten. 

Every volition is a complex idea composed of two ele- 
ments : the one is the idea of an action ; the other is a 
desire for the occurrence of that action. If I will to 



182 HUAIE. [chap. 

strike, I have an idea of a certain movement, and a de- 
sire that that movement should take place ; if I will to 
think of any subject, or, in other words, to attend to that 
subject, I have an idea of the subject and a strong desire 
that it should remain present to my consciousness. And 
so far as I can discover, this combination of an idea of 
an object with an emotion is everything that can be di- 
rectly observed in an act of volition. ' So that Hume's 
definition may be amended thus : Volition is the impres- 
sion w^hich arises when the idea of a bodily or mental 
action is accompanied by the desire that the action should 
be accomplished. It differs from other desires simply in 
the fact that we regard ourselves as possible causes of the 
action desired. 

Two questions arise, in connexion with the observation 
of the phenomenon of volition, as they arise out of the 
contemplation of all other natural phenomena. Firstly, 
has it a cause, and, if so, what is its cause ? Secondly, 
is it followed by any effect, and, if so, what effect does it 
produce ? 

Hiime points out, that the nature of the phenomena 
we consider can have nothing to do with the origin of 
the conception that they are connected by the relation 
of cause and effect. For that relation is nothing but an 
order of succession, which, so far as our experience goes, 
is invariable ; and it is obvious that the nature of phe- 
nomena has nothino; to do with their order. Whatever it 
is that leads us to seek for a cause for every event, in the 
case of the phenomena of the external world, compels us, 
with equal cogency, to seek it in that of the mind. 

The only meaning of the law of causation, in the phys- 
ical world, is, that it generalises universal experience of 
the order of that world ; and if experience shows a sim- 



Z.J VOLITION: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 183 

ilar order to obtain among states of consciousness, tlie law 
of causation will properly express that order. 

Tliat sucli an order exists, however, is acknowledged by 
every sane man : 

" Our idea, therefore, of necessity and causation, arises en- 
tirely from the uniformity observable in the operations of 
nature, where similar objects are constantly conjoined to- 
gether, and the mind is determined by custom to infer the 
one from the appearance of the other. These two circum- 
stances form the whole of that necessity which we ascribe 
to matter. Beyond the constant conjunction of similar ob- 
jects and the consequent inference from one to the other, w^e 
have no notion of any necessity of connexion. 

" If it appear, therefore, what all mankind have ever al- 
lowed, without any doubt or hesitation, that these two cir- 
cumstances take place in the voluntary actions of men, and 
in the operations of mind, it must follow that all mankind 
have ever agreed in the doctrine of necessity, and that they 
have hitherto disputed merely for not understanding each 
other."— (IV. p. 97.) 

But is this constant conjunction observable in human 
actions? A student of history could give but one answer 
to this question : 

"Ambition, avarice, self-love, vanity, friendship, generosity, 
public spirit : these passions, mixed in various degrees, and 
distributed through society, have been, from the beginning 
of the world, and still are, the source of all the actions and 
enterprises which have ever been observed among mankind. 
V^ould you know the sentiments, inclinations, and course of 
life of the Greeks and Romans ? Study well the temper and 
actions of the French and English. You cannot be much mis- 
taken in transferring to the former most of the observations 
which you have made with regard to the latter. Mankind 
are so much the same, in all times and places, that history 



184 HUME. [chap. 

informs us of nothing new or strange in this particular. Its 
chief use is only to discover the constant and universal prin- 
ciples of human nature, by showing men in all varieties of 
circumstances and situations, and furnishing us with mate- 
rials from which we may form our observations, and become 
acquainted with the regular springs of human action and 
behaviour. These records of wars, intrigues, factions, and 
revolutions are so many collections of experiments, by which 
the politician or moral philosopher fixes the principles of his 
science, in the same manner as the physician or natural phi- 
losopher becomes acquainted with the nature of plants, min- 
erals, and other external objects, by the experiments which 
he forms concerning them. Nor are the earth, air, water, 
and other elements, examined by Aristotle and Hippocrates, 
more like to those which at present lie under our observa- 
tion, than the men described by Polybius and Tacitus are to 
those who now govern the world." — (lY. p. 97 — 8.) 

Hume proceeds to point out that the value set upon 
experience in the conduct of affairs, whether of business 
or of politics, involves the acknowledgment that we base 
our expectation of what men will do upon our observation 
of what they have done, and that we are as firmly con- 
vinced of the fixed order of thoughts as we are of that 
of things. And, if it be urged that human actions not 
unfrequently appear unaccountable and capricious, his re- 
ply is prompt : — 

"I grant it possible to find some actions which seem to 
have no regular connexion with any known motives, and are 
exceptions to all the measures of conduct which have ever 
been established for the government of men. But if one 
could willingly know what judgment should be formed of 
such irregular and extraordinary actions, we may consider 
the sentiments commonly entertained with regard to those 
irregular events which ajipear in the course of nature, and 



X.] VOLITION: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 185 

the operations of external objects. All causes are not con- 
joined to their usual effects with like uniformity. An arti- 
ficer, who handles only dead matter, may be disappointed in 
his aim, as well as the politician who directs the conduct of 
sensible and intelligent agents. 

" The vulgar, who take things according to their first ap- 
pearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an un- 
certainty in the causes as make the latter often fail of their 
usual influence, though they meet with no impediment to 
their operation. But philosophers, observing that, almost in 
every part of nature, there is contained a vast variety of 
springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their 
minuteness or remoteness, find that it is at least possible the 
contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency 
in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes. 
This possibility is converted into certainty by further obser- 
vation, wdien they remark that, upon an exact scrutiny, a con- 
trariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of causes, and 
proceeds from their mutual opposition. A peasant can give 
no better reason for the stojoping of any clock or watch than 
to say that it does not commonly go right. But an artist easi- 
ly perceives that the same force in the spring or pendulum 
has always the same influence on the wheels ; but fails of its 
usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a 
stop to the whole movement. From the observation of sever- 
al parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim, that the con- 
nexion between all causes and effects is equally necessary, and 
that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from 
the secret opposition of contrary causes.''^— (lY. p. 101 — 2.) 

So with regard to human actions :- — 

''The internal principles and motives may operate in a 
uniform manner, notwithstanding these seeming irregulari- 
ties ; in the same manner as the winds, rains, clouds, and 
other variations of the w^eather are supposed to be governed 
by steady principles; though not easily discoverable by hu- 
man sagacity and inquiry." — (lY. p. 103.) 



186 HUME. [chap. 

Meteorology, as a science, was not in existence in 
Hume's time, or he would have left out the "supposed 
to be." In practice, again, what difference does any one 
make between natural and moral evidence ? 

"A prisoner who has neither money nor interest, discovers 
the impossibility of his escape, as well when he considers the 
obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars with which he 
is surrounded ; and, in all attempts for his freedom, chooses 
rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon 
the inflexible nature of the other. The same prisoner, when 
conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly from 
the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the opera- 
tion of the axe or wheel. His mind runs along a certain 
train of ideas : The refusal of the soldiers to consent to his 
escape ; the action of the executioner ; the separation of the 
head and body ; bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. 
Here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary 
actions ; but the mind feels no difference between them, in 
passing from one link to another, nor is less certain of the 
future event, than if it were connected with the objects pre- 
sented to the memory or senses, by a train of causes cement- 
ed together by what we are pleased to call Si physical necessi- 
ty. The same experienced union has the same effect on the 
mind, whether the united objects be motives, volition, and 
actions, or figure and motion. We may change the names 
of things, but their nature and their operation on the under- 
standing never change." — (lY. p. 105 — 6.) 

But, if the necessary connexion of our acts with our 
ideas has always been acknowledged in practice, why the 
proclivity of mankind to deny it words ? 

" If we examine the operations of body, and the produc- 
tion of effects from their causes, we shall find that all our fac- 
ulties can never carry us further in our knowledge of this re- 
lation, than barely to observe that particular objects are co?i- 



X.] . VOLITION : LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 187 

stantly conjoined together, and tliat the mind is carried, by a 
customary transition^ from the appearance of the one to the 
belief of the other. But though tliis conclusion concerning 
human ignorance be the result of the strictest scrutiny of this 
subject, men still entertain a strong propensity to believe, 
that they penetrate further into the province of nature, and 
perceive something like a necessary connexion between cause 
and effect. When, again, they turn their reflections towards 
the operations of their own minds, and/(5^Z no such connex- 
ion between the motive and the action, they are thence apt 
to suppose that there is a difference between the effects 
which result from material force, and those which arise from 
thought and intelligence. But, being once convinced that 
we know nothing of causation of any kind, than merely the 
constant conjunction of objects, and the consequent inference 
of the mind from one to another, and finding that these two 
circumstances are universally allowed to have place in vol- 
untary actions, we may be more easily led to own the same 
necessity common to all causes." — (IV. pp. 107 — 8.) 

The last asyhim of the hard-pressed advocate of the 
doctrine of uncaused volition is usually that, argue as you 
like, he has a profound and ineradicable consciousness of 
what he calls the freedom of his will. But Hume follows 
him even here, though only in a note, as if he thought the 
extinction of so transparent a sophism hardly worthy of 
the dignity of his text. 

^' The prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be ac- 
counted for from another cause, viz., a false sensation, or 
seeming experience, which we have, or may have, of liberty 
or indifference in many of our actions. The necessity of any 
action, whether of matter or of mind, is n^, properly speak- 
ing, a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent 
being who may consider the action ; and it consists chiefly 
in the determination of his thoughts to infer the existence 
9 



188 HUME. [chap. 

of that action from some preceding objects; as liberty, when 
opposed to necessity, is nothing but the want of that deter- 
mination, and a certain looseness or indifference which we 
feel, in passing or not passing, from the idea of any object to 
the idea of any succeeding one. Now we may observe that 
though, in reflecting on human actions, w^e seldom feel such 
looseness or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them 
with considerable certainty from their motives, and from the 
dispositions of the agent ; yet it frequently happens that, in 
'performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of some- 
thing like it: And as all resembling objects are taken for 
each other, this has been employed as demonstrative and 
even intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our ac- 
tions are subject to our will on most occasions ; and imagine 
we feel that the will itself is subject to nothing, because, 
wdien by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we feel that it 
moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself (or 
a Yelleityj as it is called in the schools), even on that side on 
which it did not settle. This image or faint motion, we per- 
suade ourselves, could at that time have been completed into 
the thing itself; because, should that be denied, we find upon 
a second trial that at present it can. We consider not that 
the fantastical desire of showing liberty is here the motive 
of our actions." — (lY. p. 110, note.) 

Moreover, the moment the attempt is made to give a 
definite meaning to the words, the supposed opposition 
between free-will and necessity turns out to be a mere 
verbal dispute. 

" For what is meant by liberty when ajDplied to voluntary 
actions ? We cannot surely mean that actions have so little 
connexion with motive, inclinations, and circumstances, that 
one does not follow with a certain degree of uniformity from 
the other, and that one affords no inference by which we can 
conclude the existence of the other. For these are plain 
and acknowledged matters of fact. By liberty, then, we can 



X.] VOLITION: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 189 

only mean a 'power of acting or not acting according to the de- 
terminations of the toill ; that is, if we clioose to remain at 
rest, we may; if we choose to move, we also may. Now this 
hypothetical liberty is universally allowed to belong to every 
one who is not a prisoner and in chains. Here, then, is no 
subject of dispute." — (lY. p. 111.) 

Half the controversies about the freedom of the will 
would have had no existence, if this pithy paragraph had 
been well pondered by those who oppose the doctrine of 
necessity. For they rest upon the absurd presumption 
that the proposition, ^' I can do as I like," is contradicto- 
ry to the doctrine of necessity. The answer is, nobody 
doubts that, at any rate within certain limits, you can do 
as you like. But what determines your likings and dis- 
Hkings ? Did you make your own constitution ? Is it 
your contrivance that one thing is pleasant and another 
is painful ? And even if it were, why did you prefer to 
make it after the one fashion rather than the other? The 
passionate assertion of the consciousness of their freedom, 
which is the favourite refuge of the opponents of the doc- 
trine of necessity, is mere futility, for nobody denies it. 
What they really have to do, if they would upset the nec- 
essarian argument, is to prove that they are free to asso- 
ciate any emotion whatever with any idea whatever ; to like 
pain as much as pleasure ; vice as much as virtue ; in short, 
to prove that, whatever may be the fixity of order of the 
universe of things, that of thought is given over to chance. 

In the second part of this remarkable essay, Hume consid- 
ers the real, or supposed, immoral consequences of the doc- 
trine of necessity, premising the weighty observation that 

" When any opinion leads to absurdity, it is certainly false ; 
but it is not certain that an opinion is false because it is of 
dangerous consequence." — (lY. p. 112.) 



190 HUME. [chap. 

And, therefore, that the attempt to refute an opinion by 
a picture of its dangerous consequences to religion and 
morality, is as illogical as it is reprehensible. 

It is said, in the first place, that necessity destroys re- 
sponsibility ; that, as it is usually put, we have no right to 
praise or blame actions that cannot be helped. Hume's 
reply amounts to this, that the very idea of responsibility 
implies the belief in the necessary connection of certain 
actions with certain states of the mind. A person is held 
responsible only for those acts which are preceded by a 
certain intention ; and, as we cannot see, or hear, or feel, 
an intention, we can only reason out its existence on the 
principle that like effects have like causes. 

If a man is found by the police busy with " jemmy " 
and dark lantern at a jeweller's shop door over night, the 
magistrate before whom he is brought the next morning, 
reasons from those effects to their causes in the fellow's 
" burglarious " ideas and volitions, with perfect confidence, 
and punishes him accordingly. And it is quite clear that 
such a proceeding would be grossly unjust, if the links of 
the logical process were other than necessarily connected 
together. The advocate who should attempt to get the 
man off on the plea that his client need not necessarily 
have had a felonious intent, would hardly waste his time 
more if he tried to prove that the sum of all the angles of 
a triangle is not two right angles, but three. 

A man's moral responsibility for his acts has, in fact, 
nothing to do with the causation of these acts, but de- 
pends on the frame of mind which accompanies them. 
Common language tells us this, when it uses "well-dis- 
posed" as the equivalent of "good," and "evil-minded" 
as that of " wicked." If A does something which puts B 
in a violent passion, it is quite possible to admit that B's 



X.] VOLITION: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 191 

passion is tbe necessary consequence of A's act, and yet 
to believe that B's fury is morally wrong, or that he ought 
to control it. In fact, a calm bystander would reason with 
both on the assumption of moral necessity. lie would 
say to A, *^ You were wrong in doing a thing which you 
knew (that is, of the necessity of which you were con- 
vinced) would irritate B.'' And he would say to B, ^' You 
are wrong to give way to passion, for you know its evil 
effects" — that is the necessary connection between yield- 
ing to passion and evil. 

So far, therefore, from necessity destroying moral re- 
sponsibility, it is the foundation of all praise and blame ; 
and moral admiration reaches its climax in the ascription 
of necessary goodness to the Deity. 

To the statement of another consequence of the neces- 
sarian doctrine that, if there be a God, he must be the 
cause of all evil as well as of all good, Hume gives no 
real reply — probably because none is possible. But then, 
if this conclusion is distinctly and unquestionably deduci- 
ble from the doctrine of necessity, it is no less unques- 
tionably a direct consequence of every known form of 
monotheism. If God is the cause of all things, he must 
be the cause of evil among the rest ; if he is omniscient, he 
must have the fore-knowledge of evil ; if he is almighty, 
he must possess the power of preventing or of extinguish- 
ing evil. And to say that an all-knowing and all-power- 
ful being is not responsible for what happens, because he 
only permits it, is, under its intellectual aspect, a piece of 
childish sophistry ; while, as to the moral look of it, one 
has only to ask any decently honourable man whether, 
under like circumstances, he would try to get rid of his 
responsibility by such a plea. 

Hume's Inquiry/ appeared in 1748. He does not refer 



192 HUME. [CHAP. 

to Antliony Collins' essay on Liberty, published thirty- 
three years before, in which the same question is treated 
to the same effect, with singular force and lucidity. It 
may be said, perhaps, that it is not wonderful that the two 
freethinkers should follow the same line of reasoning ; but 
no such theory will account for the fact that in 1754, the 
famous Calvinistic divine, Jonathan Edwards, President of 
the College of New Jersey, produced, in the interests of 
the straitest orthodoxy, a demonstration of the necessarian 
thesis, which has never been equalled in power, and cer- 
tainly has never been refuted. 

In the ninth section of the fourth part of Edwards' 
Inquiry^ he has to deal with the Arminian objection to 
the Calvinistic doctrine that '^ it makes God the author of 
sin ;" and it is curious to watch the struggle between the 
theological controversialist, striving to ward off an admis- 
sion which he knows will be employed to damage his side, 
and the acute logician, conscious that, in some shape or 
other, the admission must be made. Beginning with a 
tu quoque^ that the Arminian doctrine involves conse- 
quences as bad as the Calvinistic view, he proceeds to ob- 
ject to the term " author of sin," though he ends by ad- 
mitting that, in a certain sense, it is applicable ; he proves 
from Scripture that God is the disposer and orderer of 
sin ; and then, by an elaborate false analogy with the 
darkness resulting from the absence of the sun, endeavours 
to suggest that he is only the author of it in a negative 
sense ; and, finally, he takes refuge in the conclusion that, 
though God is the orderer and disposer of those deeds 
which, considered in relation to their agents, are morally 
evil, yet, inasmuch as His purpose has all along been in- 
finitely good, they are not evil relatively to him. 

And this, of course, may be perfectly true ; but if true, 



X.] VOLITION: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. 193 

it is inconsistent with the attribute of omnipotence. It 
is conceivable that there should be no evil in the world ; 
that which is conceivable is certainly possible ; if it were 
possible for evil to be non-existent, the maker of the 
world, who, though foreknowing the existence of evil in 
that Avorld, did not prevent it, either did not really desire 
it should not exist, or could not prevent its existence. It 
might be well for those who inveigh against the logical 
consequences of necessarianism to bethink them of the 
logical consequences of theism ; which are not only the 
same when the attribute of Omniscience is ascribed to the 
Deity, but which bring out, from the existence of moral 
evil, a hopeless conflict between the attributes of Infinite 
Benevolence and Infinite Power, which, with no less as- 
surance, are aflSrmed to appertain to the Divine Being. 

Kant's mode of dealing with the doctrine of necessity 
is very singular. That the phenomena of the mind follow 
fixed relations of cause and effect is, to him, as unquestion- 
able as it is to Hume. But then there is the Ding an 
sich^ the JVoumenon, or Kantian equivalent for the sub- 
stance of the soul. This, being out of the phenomenal 
world, is subject to none of the laws of phenomena, and 
is consequently as absolutely free, and as completely pow- 
erless, as a mathematical point, in vacuOj would be. Hence 
volition is uncaused, so far as it belongs to the noumenon, 
but necessary so far as it takes effect in the phenomenal 
world. 

Since Kant is never weary of telling us that we know 
nothing whatever, and can know nothing, about the nou- 
menon, except as the hypothetical subject of any number 
of negative predicates ; the information that it is free, in 
the sense of being out of reach of the law of causation, 
is about as valuable as the assertion that it is neither grey, 



194 HUME. [chap. 

nor blue, nor square. For practical purposes, it must be 
admitted that the inward possession of such a noumenal 
libertine does not amount to much for people whose 
actual existence is made up of nothing but definitely 
regulated phenomena. When the good and evil angels 
fought for the dead body of Moses, its presence must 
have been of about the same value to either of the con- 
tending parties, as that of Kant's noumenon, in the battle 
of impulses which rages in the breast of man. Metaphy- 
sicians, as a rule, are sadly deficient in the sense of hu- 
mour, or they would surely abstain from advancing prop- 
ositions which, when stripped of the verbiage in which 
they are disguised, appear to the profane eye to be bare 
shams, naked but not ashamed. 



XL] THE PKINCIPLES OF MORALS. 195 



CHAPTER XL 

THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 

In his autobiography, Hume writes : — 

^^ In the same year [1752] was published at London my In- 
quiry concerning the Principles of Morals; which, in my own 
opinion (who ought not to judge on that subject), is of all my 
writings, historical, philosophical, and literary, incomparably 
the best. It came unnoticed and unobserved into the world." 

It may commonly be noticed that the relative value 
which an author ascribes to his own works rarely agrees 
with the estimate formed of them by his readers, who 
criticise the products, without either the power or the 
wish to take into account the pains which they may have 
cost the producer. Moreover, the clear and dispassionate 
common sense of the Inquiry concerning the Principles 
of Morals may have tasted fiat after the highly-seasoned 
Inquiry concerning the Human Understanding, Whether 
the public like to be deceived or not may be open to 
question ; but it is beyond a doubt that they love to be 
shocked in a pleasant and mannerly way. ISTow Hume's 
speculations on moral questions are not so remote from 
those of respectable professors, like Hutcheson, or saintly 
prelates, such as Butler, as to present any striking novelty. 
And they support the cause of righteousness in a cool, rea^ 
9^ 



196 HUME. [chap. 

sonable, indeed slightly patronising fashion, eminently in 
harmony with the mind of the eighteenth century ; which 
admired virtue very much, if she would only avoid the rig- 
our which the age called fanaticism, and the fervour which 
it called enthusiasm. 

Having applied the ordinary methods of scientific in- 
quiry to the intellectual phenomena of the mind, it was 
natural that Hume should extend the same mode of inves- 
tigation to its moral phenomena ; and, in the true spirit 
of a natural philosopher, he commences by selecting a 
group of those states of consciousness with which every 
one's personal experience must have made him familiar : 
in the expectation that the discovery of the sources of 
moral approbation and disapprobation, in this compara- 
tively easy case, may furnish the means of detecting them 
where they are more recondite. 

" We shall analyse that complication of mental qualities 
which form w^hat, in common life, we call personal merit : 
We shall consider every attribute of the mind, which renders 
a man an object either of esteem and affection, or of hatred 
and contempt ; every habit or sentiment or faculty, which, if 
ascribed to any person, implies either praise or blame, and 
may enter into any panegyric or satire of his character and 
manners. The quick sensibility which, on this head, is so 
universal among mankind, gives a philosopher sufficient as- 
surance that he can never be considerably mistaken in fram- 
ing the catalogue, or incurs any danger of misj)lacing the 
objects of his contemplation : He needs only enter into his 
own breast for a moment, and consider w^hether he should 
or should not desire to have this or that quality assigned to 
him, and whether such or such an imputation would proceed 
from a friend or an enemy. The very nature of language 
guides us almost infallibly in forming a judgment of this 
nature; and as every tongue possesses one set of words 



XI.] THE PKIXCIPLES OF MORALS. 197 

which are taken in a good sense, and another in the oppo- 
site, the least acquaintance with the idiom suffices, without 
any reasoning, to direct us in collecting and arranging the 
estimable or blamable qualities of men. The only object 
of reasoning is to discover the circumstances, on both sides, 
which are common to these qualities ; to observe that par- 
ticular in which the estimable qualities agree on the one 
hand, and the blamable on the other, and thence to reach 
the foundation of ethics, and find their universal principles, 
from which all censure or approbation is ultimately derived. 
As this is a question of fact, not of abstract science, we can 
only expect success by following the experimental method, 
and deducing general maxims from a comparison of particu- 
lar instances. The other scientifical method, where a gen- 
eral abstract principle is first established, and is afterwards 
branched out into a variety of inferences and conclusions, 
may be more perfect in itself, but suits less the imperfection 
of human nature, and is a common source of illusion and 
mistake, in this as well as in other subjects. Men are now 
cured of their passion for hypotheses and systems in natural 
philosophy, and will hearken to no arguments but those 
which are derived from experience. It is full time tliey 
should attempt a like reformation in all moral disquisitions, 
and reject every system of ethics, however subtile or ingen- 
ious, which is not founded on fact and observation." — (IV. 
pp. 242—4.) 

No qualities give a man a greater claim to personal 
merit than benevolence and justice ; but if we inquire 
why benevolence deserves so much praise, the answer will 
certainly contain a large reference to the utility of that 
virtue to society ; and as for justice, the very existence of 
the virtue implies that of society ; public utility is its sole 
origin ; and the measure of its usefulness is also the stand- 
ard of its merit. If every man possessed everything he 
wanted, and no one had the power to interfere with such 



198 HUME. [CHAP. 

possession ; or if no man desired that which could damage 
his fellow man, justice would have no part to play in the 
universe. But as Hume observes : — 

" In the present disposition of the human heart, it would 
perhaps be difficult to find complete instances of such en- 
larged affections; but still w^e may observe that the case of 
families approaches towards it ; and the stronger the mut- 
ual benevolence is among the individuals, the nearer it ap- 
proaches, till all distinction of property be in a great meas- 
ure lost and confounded among them. Between married 
persons, the cement of friendship is by the laws supposed so 
strong as to abolish all division of possessions, and has often, 
in reality, the force assigned to it -} And it is observable that, 
during the ardour of new enthusiasms, when every principle 
is inflamed into extravagance, the community of goods has 
frequently been attempted ; and nothing but experience of 
its inconveniences, from the returning or disguised selfish- 
ness of men, could make the imprudent fanatics adopt anew 
the ideas of justice and separate property. So true is it that 
this virtue derives its existence entirely from its necessary 
use to the intercourse and social state of mankind." — (lY. p. 
256.) 

"Were the human species so framed by natm*e as that 
each individual possessed within himself every faculty requi- 
site both for his own preservation and for the propagation 
of his kind : Were all society and intercourse cut off between 
man and man by the primary intention of the Supreme Cre- 
ator : It seems evident that so solitary a being would be as 
much incapable of justice as of social discourse and conver- 

1 Family affection in the eighteenth century may have been 
stronger than in the nineteenth ; but Hume's bachelor inexperience 
can surely alone explain his strange account of the suppositions of 
the marriage law of that day, and their effects. The law certainly 
aboHshed ali division of possessions, but it did so by making the 
husband sole proprietor. 



XI.] THE PKINCIPLES OF MORALS. 199 

sation. Where mutual regard and forbearance serve to no 
manner of purpose, they would never direct the conduct of 
any reasonable man. The headlong course of the passions 
would be checked by no reflection on future consequences. 
And as each man is here supposed to love himself alone, and 
to depend only on himself and his own activity for safety 
and happiness, he would, on every occasion, to the utmost of 
his power, challenge the preference above every other being, 
to none of which he is bound by any ties, either of nature 
or of interest. 

" But suppose the conjunction of the sexes to be estab- 
lished in nature, a family immediately arises ; and particular 
rules being found requisite for its subsistence, these are im- 
mediately embraced, though without comprehending the rest 
of mankind within their prescriptions. Suppose tliat sev- 
eral families unite together in one society, which is totally 
disjoined from all others, the rules which preserve peace and 
order enlarge themselves to the utmost extent of that socie- 
ty ; but becoming then entirely useless, lose their force when 
carried one step further. But again, suppose that several 
distinct societies maintain a kind of intercourse for mutual 
convenience and advantage, the boundaries of justice still 
grow larger, in proportion to the largeness of men's views 
and the force of their mutual connexion. History, experi- 
ence, reason, sufficiently instruct us in this natural progress 
of human sentiments, and in the gradual enlargement of our 
regard to justice in proportion as we become acquainted 
with the extensive utility of that virtue." — (lY. pp. 262 — 4.) 

The moral obligation of justice and the rights of prop- 
erty are by no means diminished by this exposure of the 
purely utilitarian basis on which they rest : — 

"For what stronger foundation can be desired or con- 
ceived for any duty, than to observe that human society, or 
even human nature, could not subsist without the establish- 
ment of it, and will still arrive at greater degrees of happi- 



200 HUME. l^CHAP. 

ness and perfection, the more inviolable the regard is which 
is paid to that duty ? 

"The dilemma seems obvious: As justice evidently tends 
to promote public utility and to support civil society, the 
sentiment of justice is either derived from our reflecting on 
that tendency, or, like hunger, thirst, and other appetites, re- 
sentment, love of life, attachment to ofi'spring, and other 
passions, arises from a simple original instinct in the human 
heart, which nature has imjDlantecl for like salutary purposes. 
If the latter be the case, it follows that property, which is the 
object of justice, is also distinguished by a simple original 
instinct, and is not ascertained by any argument or reflection. 
But who is there that ever heard of such an instinct ? Or is 
this a subject in which new discoveries can be made ? We 
may as well expect to discover in the body new senses which 
had before escaped the observation of all mankind." — (lY. 
pp. 273, 4.) 

The restriction of the object of justice to property, in 
this passage, is singular. Pleasure and pain can hardly be 
included under the term property, and yet justice surely 
deals largely with the withholding of the former, or the 
infliction of the latter, by men on one another. If a man 
bars another from a pleasure which he would otherwise 
enjoy, or actively hurts him without good reason, the lat- 
ter is said to be injured as much as if his property had 
been interfered with. Here, indeed, it may be readily 
shown that it is as much the interest of society that men 
should not interfere with one another's freedom, or mutu- 
ally inflict positive or negative pain, as that they should 
not meddle with one another's property ; and hence the 
obligation of justice in such matters may be deduced. 
But if a man merely thinks ill of another, or feels mali- 
ciously towards him without due cause, he is properly said 
to be unjust. In this case it would be hard to prove that 



XI.] THE PKINCIPLES OF MOKALS. 201 

any injury is done to society by the evil thought ; but 
there is no question that it will be stigmatised as an injus- 
tice ; and the offender himself, in another frame of mind, 
is often ready enough to admit that he has failed to be 
just towards his neighbour. However, it may plausibly 
be said that so slight a barrier lies between thought and 
speech, that any moral quality attached to the latter is 
easily transferred to the former ; and that, since open slan- 
der is obviously opposed to the interests of society, injus- 
tice of thought, which is silent slander, must become inex- 
tricably associated with the same blame. 

But, granting the utility to society of all kinds of be- 
nevolence and justice, why should the quality of those vir- 
tues involve the sense of moral obligation ? 

Hume answers this question in the fifth section, entitled, 
Wh]/ Utility Pleases. He repudiates the deduction of 
moral approbation from self-love, and utterly denies that 
we approve of benevolent or just actions because we think 
of the benefits which they are likely to confer indirectly 
on ourselves. The source of the approbation with which 
w^e view an act useful to society must be sought elsewhere ; 
and, in fact, is to be found in that feeling which is called 
sympathy. 

"No man is absolutely indifi'erent to the happiness and 
misery of others. The first has a natural tendency to give 
pleasure, the second pain. This every one may find in him- 
self. It is not probable that these principles can be resolved 
into principles more simple and universal, whatever attempts 
may have been made for that purpose." — (lY. p. 294, note.) 

Other men's joys and sorrows are not spectacles at 
which we remain unmoved : — 

"... The view of the former, whether in its causes or ef- 



202 HUME. [CHAP. 

fects, like sunshine, or the prospect of well-cultiyated plains 
(to carry our pretensions no higher), communicates a secret 
joy and satisfaction ; the appearance of the latter, like a 
lowering cloud or barren landscape, throws a melancholy 
damp over the imagination. And this concession being 
once made, the difficulty is over; and a natural unforced 
interpretation of the phenomena of human life will after- 
wards, we hope, prevail among all speculative inquirers." — 
(IV. p. 320.) 

The moral approbation, therefore, with whicli we regard 
acts of justice or benevolence rests upon their utility to 
society, because the perception of that utility, or, in other 
words, of the pleasure which they give to other men, 
arouses a feeling of sympathetic pleasure in ourselves. 
The feeling of obligation to be just, or of the duty of jus- 
tice, arises out of that association of moral approbation or 
disapprobation with one's own actions, which is what we 
call conscience. To fail in justice, or in benevolence, is to 
be displeased with oneself. But happiness is impossible 
without inward self-approval ; and, hence, every man who 
has any regard to his own happiness and welfare, will find 
liis best reward in the practice of every moral duty. On 
this topic Hume expends much, eloquence. 

"But what philosophical truths can be more advantageous 
to society than these here delivered, which represent virtue 
in all her genuine and most engaging charms, and make us 
approach her with ease, familiarity, and affection ? The dis- 
mal dress falls off, with which many divines and some phi- 
losophers have covered her ; and nothing appears but gentle- 
ness, humanity, beneficence, affability ; nay, even at proper 
intervals, play, frolic, and gaiety. She talks not of useless 
austerities and rigours, suffering and self-denial. She de- 
clares that her sole purpose is to make her votaries, and all 
mankind, during every period of their existence, if possible. 



XL] THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 203 

cheerful and happy ; nor does she ever willingly part with 
any pleasure but in hopes of ample compensation in some 
other period of their lives. The sole trouble which she de- 
mands is that of just calculation, and a steady preference of 
the greater happiness. And if any austere pretenders ap- 
proach her, enemies to joy and pleasure, she either rejects 
them as hypocrites and deceivers, or, if she admit them in 
her train, they are ranked, however, among the least ftwour- 
ed of her votaries. 

"And, indeed, to drop all figurative expression, what hopes 
can we ever have of engaging mankind to a practice which 
we confess full of austerity and rigour ? Or what theory of 
morals can ever serve any useful purpose, unless it can show^ 
by a particular detail, that all the duties which it recom- 
mends are also the true interest of each individual ? The 
peculiar advantage of the foregoing system seems to be, that 
it furnishes proper mediums for that purpose." — (IV. p. 360.) 

In this psean to virtue, there is more of the dance meas- 
ure than will sound appropriate in the ears of most of the 
pilgrims who toil painfully, not without many a stumble 
and many a bruise, along the rough and steep roads which 
lead to the higher life. 

Virtue is undoubtedly beneficent ; but the man is to be 
envied to whom her ways seem in anywise playful. And, 
though she may not talk much about suffering and self- 
denial, her silence on that topic may be accounted for on 
the principle ^a va sans dire. The calculation of the 
greatest happiness is not performed quite so easily as a 
rule of three sum ; while, in the hour of temptation, the 
question will crop up, whether, as something has to be 
sacrificed, a bird in the hand is not worth two in the 
bush ; whether it may not be as well to give up the prob- 
lematical greater happiness in the future for a certain 
great happiness in the present, and 



204 HUME. [chap. 

" Buy the merry madness of one hour 
With the long irksomeness of following time." ^ 

If mankind cannot be engaged in practices " full of 
austerity and rigour," by the love of righteousness and 
the fear of evil, without seeking for other compensation 
than that which flows from tlie gratification of such love 
and the consciousness of escape from debasement, they 
are in a bad case. For they will assuredly find that virtue 
presents no very close likeness to the sportive leader of 
the joyous hours in Hume's rosy picture; but that she 
is an awful Goddess, whose ministers are the Furies, and 
whose highest reward is peace. 

It is not improbable that Hume would have qualified 
all this as enthusiasm or fanaticism, or both ; but he virt- 
ually admits it : — 

" Now, as virtue is an end, and is desirable on its own ac- 
count, without fee or reward, merely for the immediate sat- 
isfaction which it conveys, it is requisite that there should 
be some sentiment which it touches ; some internal taste or 
feeling, or whatever you please to call it, which distinguishes 
moral good and evil, and which embraces the one and rejects 
the other. 

'' Thus the distinct boundaries and ofiices of reason and of 
taste are easily ascertained. The former conveys the knowl- 
edge of truth and falsehood : The latter gives the sentiment 
of beauty and deformity, vice and virtue. The one discovers 
objects as they really stand in nature, without addition or 
diminution : The other has a productive faculty : and gilding 
and staining all natural objects with the colours borrowed 
from internal sentiment, raises in a manner a new creation. 
Reason being cool and disengaged, is no motive to action, 
and directs only the impulse received from appetite or in- 

^ Ben Jonson's Cynthia's Revels^ act i. 



2l] the principles of morals. 205 

clination, by sliowing us the means of attaining happiness 
or avoiding misery. Taste, as it gives pleasure or pain, and 
thereby constitutes happiness or misery, becomes a motive 
to action, and is the first spring or impulse to desire and vo- 
lition. From circumstances and relations known or sup- 
posed, the former leads us to the discovery of the concealed 
and unknown. After all circumstances and relations are laid 
before us, the latter makes us feel from the whole a new sen- 
timent of blame or approbation. The standard of the one, 
being founded on the nature of things, is external and inflex- 
ible, even by the will of the Supreme Being : The standard 
of the other, arising from the internal frame and constitution 
of animals, is ultimately derived from the Supreme Will, 
which bestowed on each being its peculiar nature, and ar- 
ranged the several classes and orders of existence." — (lY. 
p. 376—7.) 

Hume has not discussed the theological theory of the 
obligations of morality, but it is obviously in accordance 
with his view of the nature of those obligations. Under 
its theological aspect, morality is obedience to the will of 
God; and the ground for such obedience is two -fold; 
either we ought to obey God because He will punish us if 
we disobey Him, which is an argument based on the utili- 
ty of obedience ; or our obedience ought to flow from our 
love towards God, which is an argument based on pure 
feeling, and for which no reason can be given. For, if any 
man should say that he takes no pleasure in the contem- 
plation of the ideal of perfect holiness, or, in other words, 
that he does not love God, the attempt to argue him into 
acquiring that pleasure would be as hopeless as the en- 
deavour to persuade Peter Bell of the '' witchery of the 
soft blue sky." 

In which ever way we look at the matter, morality is 
based on feeling, not on reason ; though reason alone is 



206 HUME. [chap. xi. 

competent to trace out the effects of our actions, and 
thereby dictate conduct. Justice is founded on tlie love 
of one's neighbour; and goodness is a kind of beauty. 
The moral law, like the laws of physical nature, rests in 
the long run upon instinctive intuitions, and is neither 
more nor less " innate " and *^ necessary " than they are. 
Some people cannot by any means be got to understand 
the first book of Euclid ; but the truths of mathematics 
are no less necessary and binding on the great mass of 
mankind. Some there are who cannot feel the difference 
between the Sonata Ajopassionata and Cherry Ri])e; or 
between a gravestone-cutter's cherub and the Apollo Bel- 
videre ; but the canons of art are none the less acknowl- 
edged. While some there may be who, devoid of sympa- 
thy, are incapable of a sense of duty ; but neither does 
their existence affect the foundations of morality. Such 
pathological deviations from true manhood are merely the 
halt, the lame, and the blind of the world of consciousness; 
and the anatomist of the mind leaves them aside, as the 
anatomist of the body would ignore abnormal specimens. 

And as there are Pascals and Mozarts, Newtons and 
Eaffaelles, in whom the innate faculty for science or art 
seems to need but a touch to spring into full vigour, and 
through whom the human race obtains new possibilities 
of knowledge and new conceptions of beauty : so there 
have been men of moral genius, to whom we owe ideals of 
duty and visions of moral perfection, which ordinary man- 
kind could never have attained; though, happily for them, 
they can feel the beauty of a vision, which lay beyond the 
reach of their dull imaginations, and count life well spent ' 
in shaping some faint image of it in the actual world. 

/ 

THE END. ' ) 



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